Pow! Right Between The Eyes! Andy Nulman's Blog About Surprise

The Spin, Chapter 15: Epilogue--The Dust Settles

It's been quite the journey, and now it's time to officially wrap up The Spin with the all-important Epilogue, which ties up loose ends, answers questions and (hopefully) leaves readers satisfied with this story...and hungering for more.  My plans for The Spin are simple--I never did this for gain of any type, but I am somewhat curious if it's any good or four months of literary masturbation. To find out, I'm sending it to two high-powered friends in Hollywood; one a network TV producer, the other a well-respected manager, both who I trust to be brutally honest. I'll keep you posted.  No matter what they say, I'll be toying with Apple's new iBook program, with this 18,500-word opus as my raw material.

I also have been taking notes for another story, "Playing God," about the art of writing fiction and the trouble it can get you in with the characters you create.  When I'm ready to reveal, it will find its way here (but I guarantee you a much shorter tale this time).

Given that I've been asked to contribute to the Huffington Post, I may resurrect the "Weekly Lessons" concept for a bit, see how much of that stuff HuffPo will be open to, and publish the remnants here.

And then there's my day job, from which this is a nice weekly escape.  As Just For Laughs heats up with its 30th Anniversary in Montreal, events in Chicago, Toronto and Sydney, Australia, as well as a slew of new TV shows we're developing and delivering, my time here may be limited over the next seven months.

But then again, it IS the way I relax, and as Stephen King once said, "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy."

Thanks for reading.  And now, to put a button on it...

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The Spin 

 

Chapter 15:

Epilogue--The Dust Settles

 

Although the epitome of anti-climax, history should note that the ball came rest in number 30, coincidentally Curtis’s pants size.  Given the arcane nature of roulette color-coding (in number ranges from 1 to 10 and 19 to 28, odd numbers are red and even are black; in ranges from 11 to 18 and 29 to 36, odd numbers are black and even are red), it landed on red.

That meant nothing to Curtis.  He was long gone before the wheel stopped turning, his head clear and his former net worth safely nestled in Wynn bank accounts.

To those who bet “Red” or “30” or on any number of successful side bets (i.e. “time wheel spent spinning before ball landed in its final number” or “total dollar amount bet by females in Nebraska”) at casinos all over the world, it meant a payday of differing proportions. 

But to those who bet on Curtis to bet on red, or black for that matter, it meant outrage.

The lawsuits began at lightning speed almost as soon as the commemorative chip touched down.  People accused the Wynn of collusion, of fraud and of worse, but due to either a slight clerical error or some unspoken strategic brilliance, nowhere in Curtis Stanfield’s agreement with the casino was he obligated to bet on red or black.  Despite the global reach of the event, nobody ever bothered to ask about, or confirm, the ultimate red or black wager.  The winners in this case were the army of lawyers who cashed in early with a few billable hours before having to inform their furious clients that there was no leg for them to stand on. 

Because of this, the Wynn properties made out like bandits, pocketing not only Curtis’s initial stake, but multiple millions of dollars placed on his much-maligned surprise decision.  To put it lightly, the casino cleaned up, and to paraphrase Joey, “The Greens” had reared their unlucky and ugly heads, but in a very different manner.  While Wynn management had to comp a few dozen rooms, meals, show tickets and markers from some incensed high rollers, they quietly held Curtis as some sort of hero.

Ironically, so did the people at Stop Predatory Gambling.  In an official statement, the group heralded Curtis’s flippant flip as “not merely a renunciation of the concept of The Spin, but a complete disavowal of gaming as a whole,” and quickly trademarked its new, somewhat clunky, corporate slogan: “Turn The Other Way and Toss It Over Your Shoulder.”

Despite the original shock, mayhem and melodrama, Fox also had a field day. Soldiering through early headlines like “Fox Left Red-Faced” and “Black Eye For Las Vegas,” the live broadcast of The Spin was its highest-rated special since the salad days of Joe Millionaire and Alien Autopsy.  Better still, viewing numbers of the emergency re-run later that night beat the original broadcast due to the hype and hysteria.  Best of all, Fox enjoyed a trickle-down ratings bonanza on its sports and new networks, which fueled the flames of controversy with almost constant re-hashing, analysis and interpretation by countless experts, pundits and eye-witness accounts. 

As for the dozens of sponsors, while a handful apologized for their involvement and officially postured a mild sense of indignation, not one asked for its money back.

Meanwhile, industrial-strength computers in remote server farms all over the map suffered intermittent meltdowns as the Internet bucked and yawed under the weight of Twitter, YouTube and Facebook traffic.  While the buzz ran the extreme of both negative (“Fry the cheating bastard!”) and positive (“St. Stanfield lives!”), the consensus was that Curtis was a bad-ass, a rebel, an individualist who’s no slave to the system, no lackey to ‘The Man.”  This only added to his twisted legend, which is why the Fox film studio rushed his life story into production instead of cancelling it. 

Lisa Mankoff returned to her financial management business in Denver, but spent most of her time at her new pied-a-terre in New York where she was the toast of society balls on a near-nightly basis.  Her insightful tell-all book, “Spinning The Spin,” was an instant best-seller (no doubt aided by Curtis’s decision to stay monk-like mum on the subject), and opened the floodgates for slick entrepreneurs and delusional wackos everywhere to besiege her with “The Next ‘The Spin’.”

Joey Mitchelson moved to Hollywood to work at CAA as the protégé of Martin Kleinman.  Deep down, Kleinman believed that Joey was the ringmaster for Curtis’s earth shattering, controversial move, a notion that Joey was wise enough to neither confirm nor deny, keeping his new mentor in a state of intellectual détente.

Sidney Tusk was retained as Curtis’s clearing house, the center-point for all calls and requests for his secluded client, learning 425 new ways to say “no” in the process.

As for Curtis himself, he settled in a beautiful but unpretentious ranch in Santa Fe, New Mexico, which he shared with his wife—a young east-coaster he met on a snowboarding excursion to Taos Mountain 90 minutes away—and their 10 dogs, eight new brothers and sisters to Rockwell and Shaynie, heartwarmingly selected from rescue shelters in the area.  He spent most of his time at the community college, where he both took and taught classes on diverse, curiosity-inspired subjects. 

All his money was in now the hands of his trustworthy buddy Pat Singer, who put him on a modest monthly allowance and kept him oblivious to the mysterious details of his conservative investment strategy.

As a thank you gift, Pat bought Curtis a watch; a vintage gold pocket watch that would’ve cost more than the $500 it set him back had its ancient internal mechanisms actually been able to operate. 

Curtis looked at what he called his “stoppedwatch” often, for it marked a very special time.  No matter when he consulted it, it was this time of the month.  

Curtis loved this time of the month.

Again. 

And again.

And for a long, long time.

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CAN YOU BELIEVE IT? 

THE END

The Spin, Chapter 14: And In The End...Pandemonium!

Well, I promised you and ending and I delivered.  Hope you like it and it made the 14-week journey worthwhile.  I have lots to say about the process and the experience, but I'll leave that to next week, where we put a button on this story with its end-tying epilogue.  But until then, the end is near...only 2,000 or so words away.  Enoy!

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The Spin 

 

Chapter 14:

And In The End...

Pandemonium!

“Curtis Stanfield should be arrested, not celebrated!” bellowed C.D. Rappet, head of Stop Predatory Gambling. His shouts were punctuated by a chorus of affirmative “Yeahs!” by the hundreds of picket sign-wielding followers surrounding him.  “This is the new Jackass!  But where Jackass showed acts of physical irresponsibility, The Spin is an act of social and financial irresponsibility!”

Rappet’s tirade on CNN filled the 72-inch screen in Curtis’s suite, and flooded the room in 18-speaker surround sound.

“Well, at least he called The Spin by its proper name this time,” Joey said.  “He rarely ever mentions the brand.”

 “Can I ask why we are watching this?” Curtis snapped.  “Please, turn it off.  Turn everything off!”

The Spin—not just the brand, but the physical act itself—was now less than 30 minutes away.   The tension in the room was not just palpable, but almost audible, like one of those multiple cello-and-violin soundtracks used by 1950s film directors to heighten audience anxiety.

Curtis raised his gaze from the floor and looked at himself in the massive mirror that lined a whole wall. 

“I can’t believe you managed to jam all these logos on this stupid suit.  I look like the starting grid at a NASCAR race.” 

“More like Morgan Spurlock in the Greatest Movie Ever Sold,” Kleinman said matter-of-factly.  “I did that deal.”

“At least it’s Armani,” Lisa reminded him, trying to break the tension.

“Well that changes everything, doesn’t it!” Curtis said as he paced.  “I’m sure people will overlook the tackiness of this outfit knowing its sterling pedigree!”

Nobody said anything for over two minutes before Kleinman had the guts to break the silence and state the obvious.

“Curtis, I know you’re nervous.  It’s natural.  Expected.  This has become—YOU have become!—big fucking news.  It’s like you’re getting married; you’re getting cold feet.  Trust me, I know, I’ve been there four times.”

Cue some well-needed nervous laughter from all.

“But you’re almost there,” he continued.  “A half hour to go.  Look how far you’ve come!  Right now, you’ve got just one more step to go, one last choice to make—red or black.  That’s all you have to think about.”

Curtis sighed and slumped into an oversized distressed leather couch, sounding like a free-falling stuntman hitting an airbag.  A semblance of a grin did its best to crack through his lips.

“Yup, one last choice,” he said. 

“You made your mind up on which color yet?” Kleiman asked.

“No, still up in the air,” Curtis replied.   His grin grew wider. Full ear-to-ear.  “And besides, even if I did, you know I couldn’t tell you.”

“No harm in asking!” Kleinman laughed and threw up his hands.

“But lots of harm in telling,” Joey said in mock menace, repeatedly punching his open left hand with his clenched right fist.  

Joey jumped on Curtis and hugged him.  Kleinman and Lisa stood back and breathed relief. 

“Dance time,” said Curtis as Joey pulled him from the couch.  He hitched his pants, buttoned his garish jacket, straightened his hair and did his best Chubby Checker impression.  “Come on everybody, let’s do The Spin!”

---   ---   ---   ---  

Even though the weather was a sunny 60 degrees (a good 10 degrees higher than the usual February average), those who gathered to see The Spin live at the Wynn properties were dolled up in furs and foulards. Socialites, high-rollers, local celebs and well-dressed wannabes nudged up against one another and blew air kisses to those they couldn’t reach across corridors and gaming tables. The whole scene—and indeed a scene it was—was reminiscent of glory days when multi-million-dollar prize fights were the town’s top attraction. 

The Spin, however, had eclipsed the numbers and the hype associated with boxing or UFC or even the Super Bowl.  Estimates on the North American betting line alone topped $2 billion, while guesses on international action doubled or even tripled that.  Dead presidents led to dead precedents.

All over the Wynn, the unprecedented had become the norm as well.  Since noon, roulette wheels at all tables ground to a halt, opening a five-hour window dedicated exclusively for bets on The Spin itself.  All restaurants had been turned into differing, and escalating, levels of VIP service, with The Spin beamed live within.  (Even the Sports Book section had been converted into an exclusive cigar-club arena at $250 a seat, with all screens focused on The Spin.) All staff members were dressed in either red or black, except for a handful garbed in jarring, rhythm-breaking green to pay homage to the unspeakable you-know-what. 

Curtis exited the express elevator and was met by Polly Kamins, who walked him over to where his limo was waiting.  Kleinman shook his hand and saluted.  Joey embraced him in a loud, back-slapping hug.  Lisa gave him a long kiss on each cheek, followed by what could be interpreted as a knowing wink. Curtis leapt up on the SUV’s chrome step, waved goodbye, and climbed into the back seat.  He felt like an astronaut on one of those old Apollo or Gemini missions. 

The vehicle was vast, almost as big as his suite, with just about the same amount of luxurious amenities.   It was almost embarrassing being there alone.

“Seems like a waste just to go around the block,” Curtis shouted at the driver, who may have been in another area code.

“That’s quite the trip for me,” the driver responded over the intercom system.  “Sometimes I get booked just to go from one end of a casino to the other!”

Curtis didn’t know if he was joking, but given the surreal nature of what was going on outside the limo’s tinted windows, he didn’t doubt the driver.

To his right, the Schwinn bikes were still humming.  Above him, despite the morning’s tragedy, ad-pulling single-engine planes crisscrossed in the sky like mosquitoes.  High-definition projections of his image and the Fox logo painted the Wynn’s backside walls.  And as the limo made its final left turn onto a closed-to-traffic Las Vegas Boulevard, Curtis shook his head in awe.  Polly was right. Literally. People.  As far as his eyes could see. Just people. An ocean of humanity, parted neatly in two by what seemed to be a mile of rent-a-fence. 

They cheered and shouted as he drove by.  They held signs, some hand-painted, others rudimentarily printed, saying things like “I Put My Life Savings on Red!” or “Come on Curtis! Daddy Needs a New Pair of Shoes!” or “Better Red Than Dead" or "Once You Go Black, You Never Go Back.”  They waved and jumped and tried to spin in mid air in tribute.

“Un-fucking-real,” said the driver.

The two helicopters had already gently deposited Kanye and Jay-Z on the elevated stage, and just as Curtis passed under it, surrounded by hundreds of fist-pumping teenagers, his cellphone buzzed in his pocket. 

“Strange,” he said to himself, “I thought I had turned it off.”  He looked down before turning it off for good.  It was yet another well-wisher, one of the hundreds he’d received in the past 24 hours.  But this special well-wish was particularly well-timed.

“Mr. Stanfield?” the intercom buzzed.  “We’re here.”

Curtis crouched as he made his way through the limo’s cavernous seating area to the window frame that separated him from the driver.  He reached over and handed him a $100 bill as a tip, then leaned in and whispered something in the driver’s ear that left him laughing.

“Sure thing!” the driver said.  “That’s just the way I like it!”

White-gloved Wynn valets opened up the limo’s back door, and Curtis was sucked into a vortex of crazy that stood between him and the casino’s front doors.  Mixed among the Stop Predatory Gambling disciples were more fans, but these were more fervent, even more desperate than the ones that lined the strip.  They were crying and fainting. 

“Curtis, touch my baby!” one wailed as she held out a filthy child in diapers.  “Bring my baby good luck!”

Curtis ducked behind his security detail and plowed his way into the Wynn Encore, where Cojo was waiting with his microphone. Cojo danced and feigned fawning over Curtis’s clothes, and asked a bunch of questions that Curtis thought to be somewhat  over-the-top.  He tried to answer wittily, but couldn’t concentrate over the noise, the lights, the people and the camera flashes.

Somehow, his official chaperone squad delivered him on time to the doors of the Encore Theatre, where they waited for the somewhat unfamiliar sound of Blue Oyster Cult as his cue.  At the first note, Polly herself put her hand between Curtis’s shoulders, and gave him a shove.

“Go make history!” she shouted above the din.

And what din it was.  The crowd went crazy as Curtis made his entrance and walked down the aisle toward the stage.  Sheer pandemonium. 

Climbing the lucky seven steps to his on-stage position, Curtis tried to focus on who was who in Team Red and Team Black. The smoke and the lasers and the frantic, multi-color Vari-Lites made it hard to see, but Curtis could make out the Kardashian sisters, Donald Trump, Kirstie Alley, Charlie Sheen, Joan Rivers, Sylvester Stallone and Kathy Griffin clapping along to the music.  Even though his senses were being carpet-bombed by electronic stimuli and internal emotion, he had enough composure to shake his head ever so slightly and mouth the sentiment “Oy…” as he performed the pre-determined bow to each team.

At that moment, two overhead spots erupted like volcanoes, illuminating the positions of button-pusher Muhammad Ali and the quintet of lever-pullers.

The countdown drum roll cracked the sky and caught Curtis somewhat off guard.  He actually quivered a bit as the rapid snare snaps brought all the other noise and commotion to an immediate halt. 

Curtis remained in a slight state of shell shock as the $4 million commemorative chip was brought to him.  Standing upright in a Tiffany silver box, Curtis plucked it out from its velvet pinch and rolled his thumb and forefinger over his embossed profile that adorned it. It was way heavier than he figured it was going to be.  “Good workmanship,” he thought.

The drum roll, while lasting only ten seconds, seemed to linger for an eternity in Curtis’s head. 

The anticipation was suffocating.

Heart thumping.

Cold sweating.

Finally…the sharp cymbal crash.

And as the world waited for Curtis Stanfield to reveal his “this or that” decision…he chose “the other.”

In the first unchoreographed move of the night, Curtis spun on his heels and turned his back on the two teams, the pusher, the pullers and the spinning wheel on stage. 

Then he flipped $4 million dollars worth of iconography high over his shoulder.

As the commemorative chip slowly arched its way through the air, as the audience in house and around the world gasped, as celebrities and executives looked on in bewilderment, Curtis turned his body 90 more degrees north, took 25 more steps into the wings and out a door to the theater’s loading dock.

The chip landed with a soft thud on the roulette table’s velvet layout, bounced a couple of times and spun on its axis for a bit before finally flattening out to a stop, smack-dab on the intersection of numbers 17, 18, 20 and 21.

The silence and disbelief inside the Encore Theatre held in suspended animation for a few seconds before crumbling under a pile-driver of outrage.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please!”  Ryan Seacrest pleaded as he bounded across the stage trying to regain control of what had turned into mayhem.  “We’ll get to the bottom of this!  In the meantime, once again, here’s The Black Eyed Peas!”

As is usually the case in an earth-shattering moment, its catalyst becomes enveloped in a vacuum of eerie calm.  Curtis walked through the valley of the shadow of his cataclysm with uncanny poise.  As people scrambled around him, he leisurely, deliberately climbed into the limo for a scheduled pick-up he had arranged less than a half hour ago.

This time, he wasn’t left alone in the vast passenger temple.

There waiting for him was a familiar face. 

A stunning, long-haired blonde. 

One who jumped on him with glee and smothered him in wet kisses.

It was Rockwell, a little worse for the wear and tear, some bald patches where fur once was, but still the same happy-go-lucky mutt he’d always been before the accident.  He was joined in barking frolic by Shaynie, who bounded over the window frame into the back seating area like an equestrian champion.  Curtis’s Armani suit was soon covered in more dog hair than corporate logos.

“Uh, where to, Mr. Stanfield?” the intercom buzzed.

Curtis replied slowly, drawing out each syllable and slapping each consonant with a sense of fatigued liberation.  It was almost as if every word or two was its own unique sentence.

“Just drive,” he smiled. 

“And keep going. 

"Keep going.  Until we reach Sunday.”

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Next week:  THE EPIC EPLIOGUE!

The Spin, Chapter 13: At the Epicenter of the Whirlwind

Anybody out there still following this?  You've got one more week.  Too much going on in setting up Curtis and co to lay down the finishing touch.  Next week, I promise, The Spin actually takes place.  And then I take this story on its next journey.  But until then...fun times and more questions.

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The Spin 

 

Chapter 13:

At the Epicenter

of the Whirlwind

 

From the seed planted by the frustration with his monthly financial statements less than a year ago, it had all boiled down to this for Curtis Stanfield: the night before, the morning after, and The Spin itself.

The night before was nothing less than utopian.  The "Who We Are and Wow We Got Here" set-up show ran on Fox and chewed up the overnight ratings.  The timing couldn’t have been better—the nation was still reeling from a heart-stopping Super Bowl game that was decided in overtime the Sunday before, the broadcast of which Fox used to incessantly promote the hell out of its two-part The Spin special.

Curtis watched his show on giant HD screens set up in the Wynn’s Tryst nightclub amongst friends, sponsors, media and guests of the casino who gathered for what was called a private party, albeit less-than-intimate with a crush of over 1,500 people. Although originally scheduled for the Encore Theater on the other side of the property, the party was moved to these cozier confines as the theater rattled with preparatory activity for the next night’s main event.

The screening was followed by a Barnumesque ceremony where Steve Wynn himself unveiled a specially-commissioned work of art to commemorate The Spin: a 25-foot-high, steel and crystal roulette wheel that rotated vertically like a Ferris Wheel, designed by renowned large-scale sculptor Will Ryman.  The Spin’s gigantic, perpetually turning disc would become—like the brass statue of Elvis Presley a few blocks away at The Hilton—an eternal calling card outside the Encore’s front door.  To top off the evening, Curtis sipped Coppola’s Black Label Claret (Official Wine Sponsor of The Spin) from his seat on a specially constructed stage in the club and watched Green Day perform a spirited 75-minute set of their hits in his honor.

While this was the culmination of one of his earliest and most personally exciting demands, Curtis couldn’t resist looking away from the on-stage mania to sneak peeks at two folded documents tucked into his jacket’s breast pocket. 

The first was a legal agreement drafted by Sidney Tusk and signed by Miranda for a lump-sum, final financial settlement of $1.5 million.  Despite the good fight, she was only entitled to what Curtis had earned while the two were together, and this round figure finally put an end to the squabbling and mounting legal costs. 

Good thing, given the contents of the second document, which was a Final Report provided by Lisa.  It listed all 32 Official Sponsors of The Spin, ranging from both Johnnie Walker Black AND Red (Official Spirits of The Spin, both now to be mixed with Red Bull as the Official Drink of The Spin) to Verizon Wireless (Official Wireless Carrier of The Spin) to Wrigley’s Big Red (Official Chewing Gum of The Spin).  Adweek Magazine had just labeled The Spin “The marketing bonanza of the year…perhaps of the Millennium so far,” and although only February, named Team Curtis “Marketers of The Year.”  Lisa’s comprehensive six-page doc also listed spin-off, licensing and ancillary deals like TV shows, story rights, speaking engagements and the like.  Finally, most importantly, it listed the sum total of all these deals:  $11,785,000.

“How’s that for a Valentine’s Day present?” she wrote at the bottom by hand.  “Now what are you buying me?”  She overlaid her swooping cursive scribble with a fiery red lipstick imprint. 

--   --   --

Given the whirlwind at which he was at the epicenter, Curtis was racing with adrenalin and found it a little hard to get any rest that night before. 

The morning after didn’t help.

Even though ensconced in an upper-floor suite, Curtis was woken on Spin Day by the hubbub of megaphones, chants and a strange whirr coming from the ground hundreds of feet below.  Looking out his panoramic windows, he gulped when he identified the source of the vocal clamor—a massive protest by the anti-gambling lobby that surrounded the Wynn like a human moat of sign-toting screamers.  As for the machine-like hum, he rubbed his eyes at the bizarre vision of hundreds upon hundreds of lycra-clad bodies on exercise bikes.  Yup, Schwinn had carried out their PR mission/threat of hitching on to Curtis’s wagon by mounting the World’s Biggest Spin Class, and had rented out space out front of The Palazzo hotel across the street to do just so.

Of course, the red light on his phone was flashing, too.

“Didn’t want to wake you buddy, but figured you’d better know,”  Joey’s familiar voice said on the message.  “Two small planes tailing ad messages for ‘The Pull’ and ‘The Toss’ crashed in mid-air.  One pilot’s dead, the other parachuted to safety, but is in hospital with eight cracked ribs and a ruptured spleen.  Kleinman says serves ‘em right for trying to step on our event, but told me to tell you that if anyone asks, you just say how saddened you are.

“Don’t let this get to you!” he continued, amplifying his voice and injecting it with a soupcon of upbeat.  “We’re almost there!  See you at rehearsal!” 

After enjoying a half-hour multi-head, multi-directional shower (“Feels like a horizontal thunderstorm,” as Lisa described it) in his 400 square foot bathroom, Curtis left his suite, winked at the two bodyguards flanking his door, and made his way with them down a secret express elevator to meet Polly Kamins, Fox’s choice as Stage Director for The Spin’s live broadcast.  Looking like a lion with sharp feline features and flowing mane of sandy brown hair, the veteran was waiting to walk him through the detailed and precise process of putting his life on the line in front of millions of rabid viewers.

“Sorry about the planes this morning.  And the protest,” she opened.

“Thanks.  It’s awful.  And silly,” Curtis shrugged. 

“Okay, now with that behind us, I have to make sure you’re up for what’s in store.  This is going to be like the military.”

“I’m ready,” Curtis assured her with a salute.

With Joey, Lisa, Kleinman and Curtis’s star-struck parents looking on from the sidelines, Polly explained that Curtis would be snuck out of the hotel and into an SUV limousine, which would start the persistent, multi-camera coverage of his every move.  The limo would be driven around the block, then down Las Vegas Boulevard through a phalanx of fans; “Kind of like Moses parting the Red Sea,” she explained.  After passing directly under the Kanye/Jay-Z performance, the limo would pull up to the front door of the Wynn Encore.

“What about the protesters?” Curtis inquired nervously.  “How will we get rid of them?” 

“We won’t.  Darnell thinks it makes great TV.”

“You’d think that Fox set it all up themselves.”

“Wouldn’t put it past ‘em,” Polly smirked.  “Wouldn’t be the first time, either.”

With a path cleared by the combined efforts of private security and the Las Vegas police force, Curtis would then head down a sparkling red carpet (with a distinctive black stripe down the middle), where he would be met and interviewed by Steven “Cojo” Cojocaru, the madcap fashion guru who spices up celebrity entrances at the Oscars, Emmys and other high-profile showbiz events.  After an hour kibbitzing with, and commenting on, the parade of stars gathering for The Spin, Curtis would be Cojo’s closing subject.

“This segment is a big plus for your sponsors,” Polly added.  “Be ready for him though, he’s probably going to make fun of your outfit.” 

“Won’t be hard,” Curtis said under his breath. 

“After that, the cameras will follow you as you walk through the casino to the theater doors.  We’ll hold you a few seconds, and time your walk-in to coincide with the opening notes of Blue Oyster Cult’s ‘The Red and The Black’.  Then, you walk down the aisle, to the stage, bow slightly to each of the ‘teams’ on stage and, voila!  Pick your color!”

Curtis breathed a slight sigh of relief.

“Not that simple, though,” Polly cautioned.  “We’ve modified the standard roulette procedure because of the star involvement and the one-time nature of your bet.  At first, the cameras will focus in on Muhammad Ali as he presses the button to start the wheel.  Then they’ll cut to the people pulling the lever to release the ball, then cut over to you. 

"And because the ball will take about 10 seconds to slide down the tube and drop into the wheel, we want you to wait until it does before you make any move.  The whole thing will be accompanied by a drum roll, starting at Ali.  Your cue is the cymbal crash and trumpet blare that puts a button on the roll.  Once you hear that, and ONLY when you hear that, can you lay down your chip.”

And what a chip he would lay down.  Over and above the collector’s line of commemorative “The Spin” chips the Wynn properties would use exclusively for two weeks prior to the event, Curtis would be given a distinctive token, hand-crafted out of titanium, by show host Ryan Seacrest, to make his bet.  The denomination on this chip would be a record $4 million, 40 times the value of the previous most valuable chip ever, the $100,000 baccarat chip at the Paris, Las Vegas casino.  It would also mark the singular largest table wager in the history of gambling.  (While The Spin was based on Curtis’ earlier net worth of  $3,878,422.97, the Wynn group wanted a more media-friendly round number, so they fronted an additional $121,577.03, which Curtis would re-pay if he won…and be irrelevant if he lost.)

“The placing of the bet has to be timed and choreographed to the second.”  Polly was almost chiding him now.  It’s the way she always got things done—three parts excitement, one part fear, wrapped in a cloak of “been there, done that” expertise comfort.  “Don’t ever forget that we’re going out live.  Any questions?”

“Not right now,” he said although his head was swimming upstream. “Maybe later.”

“We ain’t got a lot of later left, big boy.”

Curtis looked at his watch.  It was 12:43.  The Spin was scheduled for 8:00 p.m…but 8:00 p.m. Eastern time, which made start time 5:00 p.m. Vegas time, a little more than four hours away.

The convoy of limos delivering celebrity members of Fox’s Team Red and Team Black had already stared to flow through the hotel’s stately entrance road, bringing flashes from the paparazzi, squeals from the gathered throng and even louder shouts from the protestors.

The hills were alive with the sound of mucus.  It was the cacophony of lunacy, the clatter of madness. 

Curtis rode up the express elevator thinking that in just a scant few hours, this would all be silenced. 

He hoped.

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To be CONCLUDED next week...

The Spin, Chapter 12: Deftly Planting the Conqueror's Flag

I know exactly how this is going to end, which is why the level of absurdity is ramping up even more.  Kinda tipping the direction with Curtis's introspection, but you knew that there was somewhat of a surprise ending lurking, didn't ya?  Anyway, next week we got the conclusion, followed by the epilogue that I'm still working on.  But until then, here we go!

------------------------------------------------

The Spin 

 

Chapter 12:

Deftly Planting

the Conqueror's Flag

The Fox deal brought yet another member to the Team Curtis party, this time a powerful agent at CAA in Hollywood named Martin Kleinman.  Since the fateful Kimmel show walk-off moment, Curtis had been pursued by a gaggle of agents, managers and cigar-chomping shysters laying even more promises of riches and a brighter tomorrow at his feet.  Although still spiced with a sense of grandeur and hype, Kleiman was the most demure.  That and his love of animals (whether actually true or merely well-researched by his assistants) sealed the deal. 

"Everybody's so different," Curtis explained to his parents during a late-night catch-up call, echoing the words of Joe Walsh in the process. "I haven't changed.  I think.  Uh, I hope."

While ecstatic with the latest development, Lisa was certain that signing with such a stellar agency would put Joey's nose out of joint, but Joey actually welcomed another player in the mix.  He knew he was way out of his league negotiating broadcast deals and beyond, and wisely figured he'd learn a whole lot more by climbing into the backseat and handing the ultra-connected Kleinman the steering wheel...not to mention position his own future standing in Hollywood.

With The Spin, Team Curtis had successfully created, constructed and climbed Sugar Mountain, but by finessing the Fox deal, the bespectacled and prematurely-grey Kleinman deftly planted the conqueror's flag atop it.  In a format similar to that of American Idol, he pushed Fox to break The Spin into two separate, but connected, specials. 

The first would be a one-hour "Who we are and how we got here" set-up overview that would focus on Curtis and his life, the history of gambling and the nature of odds and mathematical probability. Guests would include well-known celebrity gamblers like George Clooney, Matt Damon, Tobey Maguire, Ben Affleck, Matt Damon, Jennifer Tilley, Celine Dion's husband Rene Angelil and Steve Wynn himself.  Less famous but equally as interesting would be Sir Earl DeMontague, a broom-mustached Brit who is the world's foremost expert on roulette as well as the brainy John Allen Paulos, a renowned professor of math at Temple University in Philadelphia and the author of eight myth-busting books on numbers and statistics. Show #1 would culminate with a push to the "real show," the live broadcast of The Spin itself, and all the bombastic brouhaha that would embrace it.

"Even more impressive," Kleinman explained at a team meeting in CAA's majestic Century City headquarters, "is that for the first time in its history, Fox is splitting the project's producing responsibility between three different divisions, Alternative Entertainment, Sports and Digital."

"Which means?" asked Joey.

"These guys don't play well with each other, even though they're in the same big sandbox," Kleinman continued through sips on a Diet Coke.  "The fact that they're coming together for you is big industry news.  It's an unprecedented one-two-three punch that mashes up the drama of a championship sporting event with the superstar puffery of a New Year's Eve show, broadcast live on TV and steroid injected via the Internet."

Said puffery would include a lengthy guest list of checkout rack magazine-level celebs plunked in plush, multi-tiered, horseshoe-shaped love seats surrounding a specially-constructed roulette wheel onstage at the Encore Theater.  The seating would be spilt in two, to signify "Team Red" and "Team Black."  Depending on The Spin's ultimate outcome, the winning "team" would benefit from a $500,000 windfall donated to five charities of their collective choice. 

The guest list would also feature six very diverse performing bands: three from "Team Black," namely The Black Eyed Peas, Black Sabbath and the Black Keys; two from "Team Red," The Red Hot Chili Peppers and Simply Red; as well as The Blue Oyster Cult (a seemingly off-color choice at first glance, but explained via the tune "The Red and The Black" from their album "Tyranny And Mutation"). Lucky fans would see it all from the theater's usual seating area directly opposite the star-studded on-stage grandstands; slightly less lucky ones would watch on giant screens set up throughout and outside the casino.

Instead of leaving the fateful spin in the hands of a seasoned croupier, the wheel itself will be set in motion by the push of a button by perhaps the most famous celebrity on earth--Muhammad Ali (whose advanced Parkinson's Disease sadly prevents him from actually spinning the wheel). As for the ball of destiny, it too will be removed from any human contact, fed instead into the spinning wheel via a Tiffany-designed sterling silver tube (official Jewelry Provider to "The Spin").  To pay homage to old and new Vegas in the process, five of the city's icons--Wayne Newton, Don Rickles, Elton John, an Elvis impersonator and a contortionist from Cirque du Soleil--will simultaneously pull the lever to release the ball and set it down the tube on its path to destiny.

To top things off, the show would open with the Kanye/Jay-Z duet performed live in front of thousands outdoors on a closed-to-traffic, two-block section of Las Vegas boulevard.  The pair would be lowered by two separate helicopters (yes, one red, one black) onto a round elevated stage balanced on the pedestrian bridge that connects the Wynn properties to the Fashion Show Mall across the street.

Yeah, just another modest Fox event...

The license fee for the spiraling extravaganza? 

"Eight whopping figures!" laughed Kleinman.  $10 million, to be exact, one of which goes right to Curtis.

"But th-th-th-that's not all folks," he continued, parodying the Porky Pig stutter that used to close all Warner Brother cartoons.  "I managed to bring 20th Century Fox, the film studio, to the table, too.  They bought the rights to Curtis' life story for another million minimum, plus a producer credit, plus a nice piece of back-end, Blu-ray and cable sales...the works!"

Lisa could hardly contain her joy, letting out a little squeal at the news.  Joey slapped a very self-conscious Curtis on the back and upped Lisa's squeak with a whoop.

"You guys have done a great job to this point," Kleinman said.  "You've got a lot on your plate between now and The Spin.  Take care of your corporate deals.  Make sure Wynn is happy.  Leave Curtis and Hollywood to me.  This is a monster."

"Frankenstein or Jeffrey Dahmer?" Curtis thought.

"Don't go tweeting this now!" Kleinman barked as Joey reached for his iPhone.  "You'll fuck everything up in half a heartbeat!  All of this is confidential. It's up to me and Fox to decide what is said when."

"No problem boss," Joey smiled.  He was sucking up and learning his place at the same time.

As the words left Joey's mouth, Curtis's own iPhone vibrated.  It was yet another text message, but for this one, he was able to look up and see the bright, smiling, impeccably made-up eyes of the person who sent it. 

Like the email from Fox, Lisa's text spoke volumes, and it spoke loudly, in only four words.

"Our tomorrow starts today ;)"

Curtis smiled back, but it was more a smile of resignation than one of confidence.  He still didn't know exactly where she was going with all this.

Later that night, after yet another round of congratulatory cocktails, celebratory meals and late-night strategic drinking sessions, Curtis opened the balcony doors in his top-floor suite, sat down to a 270-degree view of the Los Angeles environs, and took stock of his situation.

Things were crazy, but under control. 

Just not under his control.

He was indeed living the dream, but perhaps somebody else's.

His professional future--once a simple straight line--now resembled something like the root structure of a large tree.

His longtime girlfriend had left him, and was aggressively suing him for half his net worth.

One of his beloved dogs was on life support.

He was followed by wrist-whispering bodyguards in public.

He was invited to every major cultural and social event, and asked for his opinion on subjects he had little knowledge or interest in.

People talked about him, judged him, text messaged him, emailed him, tried to call him, shouted out to him in public, sponsored him, laid bets on him, put their faith in him and depended on him.

He was not just a "personality," he was an industry.

Curtis never really wanted for any of this; all he really wanted was to let a simple red or black/double or nothing choice determine his fate.  In essence, that's precisely what happened, but fate turned out to be a lot stronger a force than he could've imagined, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and tossing him headfirst into a whirlpool of mad change.

Everything was now being taken care of by others.

Everything was out of his hands.

Well, almost everything.  All that was left for Curtis Stanfield to do was choose the right color on Spin Day.

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To be continued next week...

The Spin, Chapter 11: Now With Turbo-Charged, Intoxicating Additive!

We're getting down to the wire, folks.  One or two more chapters after this and The Spin comes to its tumultuous climax.  This one was perhaps the most fun to write yet, despite the fact that I'm on vacation in Vail. But in between the snowboarding, the dining and drinking, there's a storythat has to be advanced. This week, we pump up the volume.

------------------------------------------------

The Spin 

 

Chapter 11:

Now With Turbo-Charged,

Intoxicating Additive!

In more ways than one, it was a good thing that Joey had accompanied Curtis on this trip. Despite the somewhat hallucinatory numbers being bandied about in the palatial penthouse boardroom of the Wynn Hotel during the finalization of his contract for The Spin, Curtis's head was adrift miles away.

Luckily, the hit-and-run driver did not kill Rockwell, but left the dog with a broken leg, a nasty head gash and some pretty harsh internal injuries.  Although currently stable in the canine version of a coma, prognosis for Rockwell's recovery was fair-to-good, which kept Curtis in Nevada instead of back home in Denver...well, at least physically.

"He'd better sharpen up," Lisa whispered to Joey during one of their many off-the-record conversations in the hours after the accident. Lisa had little use for animals, except if they were the focal point of a charity fundraiser somewhere. "There are so many interviews he has to do in L.A.  He's being treated like an A-lister. And then we're off to New York, where they're traditionally a little more cynical..."

Respecting what he was going through, the collected Wynn heavyweights cut Curtis some slack.  He left the room frequently to call the Baker Animal Hospital, to deal with the increasingly hysterical dog-walker Andrea (and her incessantly apologetic parents, who agreed to help supervise the walking of Shaynie and to keep a vigil over Rockwell at the hospital), and to deal with Sid Tusk, who was peppering him with urgent questions about Miranda. Joey was left alone to handle last-minutes questions and concerns.  Ever the shrewd operator, he took advantage of the situation and Curtis's shaky constitution by negotiating a 2.2% cut of the casino's gross take on The Spin to benefit the ASPCA...as well as a matching bonus bump for Team Curtis as well.

"If life hands you lemons, make lemonade," Joey summarized the situation as he sat down with Curtis for a relatively sombre celebratory drink at Wynn's aptly-named "Surrender" nightspot.  "And if life hands you lemonade..." he said while reaching over the bar for a bottle, "...pour some vodka into it!"

Curtis managed a smile, his first real one since landing.  True, he felt guilty hitting the road and leaving his dogs alone, but it wasn't the first time, and definitely won't be the last given all that was going on.  He knew that this type of accident could happen anytime, anywhere, to anyone.  Yeah, even to him.  Meanwhile, Joey had parlayed the incident into another win-win; based on the estimate of a $10 million betting line at the two Wynn properties alone, Curtis and downtrodden animals all over the country would each enjoy a windfall of over $200,000.

"A perfect metaphor for my life," Curtis said in response to Joey's toast. "A little sour, mostly sweet, and now new and improved with turbo-charged, intoxicating additive!"

Although he spoke the words ironically, with the sing-song overemphasis of a late-night infomercial pitchman, Curtis had no idea how prophetic his off-the-cuff remark would become.  Or how far turbo-charging can push the limits of mass intoxication.

Lisa had nothing to worry about.  The interviews in L.A. went well.  In retrospect, perhaps even too well, given what one of them inspired.  Curtis was glib, charismatic and punched way above his weight while facing the lights and pressure of network TV.  His major score was how he diffused a potentially embarrassing (and one can argue politically incorrect) situation when, after a commercial break on Jimmy Kimmel Live!, he was ambushed by two stunning models, one native-American, the other African-American, flanking his seat.

"So tell me Curtis," Kimmel gleamed, much to the delight of his uproarious audience, "The nation is buzzing about your upcoming spin, but I'm giving you the chance to choose right now--the Red or the Black?"

"Tell you what," Curtis replied confidently and instantly, as if his response was scripted and rehearsed. "I haven't made up my mind yet, but I'll take both with the promise to be unduly influenced by at least one of them!"

The audience roared even louder as he got up, took each by the arm, and made an early exit through the center curtains.  Kimmel was left speechless, and could do nothing except shrug his shoulders as he cut to commercial.  The next day, the clip was viewed by over 1,000,000 people on YouTube...including Mike Darnell at Fox.

To paraphrase Neil Armstrong, that was one small answer for a man, one giant leap for The Spin.

Turbo-charged? With that memorable moment, what was once merely viral went coast-to-coast/up-and-down mainstream, which in turn, ratcheted its contagion level to quantum viral.

Intoxicating? What was once giddy drunk was now LSD hallucinogenic.

The Spin had now become part of the international vernacular, driving up interview requests, sponsor bids and world-wide betting interest.  Cognoscenti in the gaming industry believed that the amount of money to be wagered on The Spin would no doubt set an American record (it was already on pace to easily surpass the aggregate wager spent on the Super Bowl), and many went as far as predicting that it could rival the billions bet globally on the last World Cup. Forget the mere "Red or Black?"; there were hundreds of side bets being offered at casinos, on websites and through bookies all over the world, ranging from what number the roulette ball would actually stop on, to the weather on Spin Day (as it was now officially labelled in an international copyright), to the race, age and height of the croupier who would actually spin the wheel.

The nation wasn't merely "buzzing," as Kimmel put it, they were obsessing; obsessing on Spinmania to the point of needing professional therapy.

The flow of jokes from the late-night talk show hosts was incessant but mere child's play; Sunday mornings saw serious panel show pundits put aside usual subject matters like the unravelling of Europe or the increasing Iranian nuclear threat to debate the far-reaching socio-economic ramifications of The Spin instead.  President Barack Obama himself made a brief appearance on Meet The Press, and while he praised Curtis for "resurrecting the traditional American risk-taking entrepreneurial spirit," he cautioned against "the lack of middle ground of such decision-making," before adding "Where would we be if Kennedy and Kruschev were this all-or-nothing impulsive?"  And what started tongue-in-cheekly on ABC News This Week, when George Stephanopoulos divided the electoral map into "Red or Black" states instead of the traditional "Red or Blue," quickly festered into a national compulsion, changing every day depending on a country-wide poll asking a statistically-significant sample which color they believed Curtis would lay his life saving's down upon.

The Spin even had its own, unofficial theme song, as Hip-hop superstars Kanye West and Jay-Z teamed up to pen a jackhammer back-and-forth rap tune, with Kanye singing the pugnacious "red" lines and Jay-Z handling the more mellifluous "black" parts.

Then there were the copycats.  Losing out to Wynn didn't sit well with the demanding executive suites of other massive gaming corporations, so the call went out to find other people willing to lay their lives on the line at the turn of a card (MGM Grand's "The Flip"), the roll of a pair of dice (Mandalay Resorts' "The Toss"), the outcome of a slot machine (Las Vegas Sands Group's "The Pull") or a hand of online poker (Caesars Interactive Entertainment's "The Click").  Lottery corporations in 32 states also jumped into the "me-too" pool, each launching some variation of a "one or the other"-themed instant-win scratch-off card. The whole notion of "double or nothing" trickled down to the smallest of retail outlets, where restaurants, supermarkets, clothing shops, pharmacists and even strippers offered the more daring of their customer base a version of The Spin, albeit in reverse, where the flip of a coin would result in a freebie win or a twice-the-price loss.

It was Curtis in Wonderland, with Joey as the Mad Hatter and Lisa as the Queen.  But not everything spinning down the rabbit hole was rainbow bright and peachy-keen.

The hashtag #RedorBlack was still trending daily on Twitter, but so was #RedBlackwhocares, #stopthespin and #gamblingkills.  While Curtis's personal Twitter account had over 1 million followers, nearly as popular was "The Spun," a fake-Curtis stream of commentary that included gems like "Great news!  Satan and Kraft Foods have agreed to be the co-sponsors of my soul." The Spin's official Facebook page had over 1.5 million likes, but also lurking in cyberspace were dozens on anti-Spin pages, some by goofy kids but most by anti-gambling and anti-capitalism activists (who had taken to this almost as vehemently as they did to the Occupy movement of 2011).

Darker still was a spew of menacing blackmail, complaints and stalkers.  Some claimed that they had originally conceived the concept of The Spin and that Curtis had brazenly ripped them off ("You'll be hearing from my lawyer!").  There were marriage proposals ("Spin into my arms, my darling, and we can be together forever!") and paternity suits ("She looks just like you."). There were mafia-esque demands to know what color Curtis would choose ("...or else!") and even some nasty threats on his life ("Remember, you've been warned!").  The FBI--yes, it got to that level--classified most of these of the "irritant" variety, but agreed with Lisa's earlier suggestion that Curtis be followed by an around-the-clock security detail.

There was such an continuous deluge of email, text messages, couriered envelopes and phone calls pouring into Team Curtis that Lisa and Joey (and the three-person help staff they had to hire) had a hard time dealing with it all, never mind separating the wheat from the chaff.  Which is why they almost missed the four word email from Fox Alternative Entertainment which said in most minimalist terms:

"The Spin? We're in."

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To be continued next week...

The Spin, Chapter 10: Riding The Rocket!

How did you spend your New Year's Day?  Below is how I spent mine--an afternoon of about 1,800 words of bliss for me, and of twists and turns for Curtis Stanfield and co.  Enjoy and Happy New Year!

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The Spin 

 

Chapter 10:

Riding The Rocket!

Back in the helium-filled, heady days of wine and roses at SnowBalls, everyone in the high-tech industry seemed to be unanimous on a common definition of “up”; they called it “Hockey Stick Growth.”  Even the bronze-skinned Silicon Valley VCs whose only exposure to ice was in a tumbler of single malt understood the metaphor: a prolonged shaft’s-length period of ground-level survival followed by a sharp, 45-degree kink of skyward expansion along the blade.  Hockey Stick Growth was the Holy Grail of every young company and their hopeful investors.

But what Curtis Stanfield was now experiencing redefined “up,” literally turning the meaning of Hockey Stick Growth on its head.  Since deciding to put all he had on one spin of the roulette wheel, Curtis enjoyed a brief period of blade-on-terra-firma stability before his life exploded straight-to-the-heavens, almost a full 90-degrees north, along a seemingly never-ending shaft of sleek carbon fiber.  As Joey used to say, and was now saying again, Curtis was “riding the rocket.”

On November 11^th, a mere two weeks after taking a week off to get his head together, Curtis decided to leave work for good.  At least temporarily.  The Spin had now become his full-time job.  Curtis Stanfield’s daily existence had taken on the feel of those clichéd movies where one’s life flashes by in a series of spiraling newspaper headlines and overlapping magazine covers, interjected with snippets of TV talkshows and news reports…the only difference being that this was actually his life, not a clichéd movie.

He closed his eyes and opened them again just to make sure.

“Would you like something else to drink?  We’ll be landing in about a half-hour.” said the perky flight attendant, silver tray in hand.

“Uh, maybe another coffee, please.  Espresso…”

“Double, with no sugar, right?”

“You got it,” he smiled.

Curtis heard the whir of the Clover single-serve machine as it ground up and pushed out his cup of steaming liquid perfection.  He was flying to Las Vegas on Steve Wynn’s private jet to sign the contract that made the Wynn Encore the much sought-after “Official Home of the Spin.”  The decision wasn’t an easy one, but despite the fact that Caesar’s was willing to top any “appearance bonus” by 15% (Wynn’s offer maxed out at $375,000), Curtis believed that “You dance with the one that brung ya,” and since Joel Fischman had called first, he felt a somewhat schoolyard friendship-like allegiance to him. 

Well that, and the fact that the hotel’s stated theme, “Life Imitating Art,” kind of spoke to the Dali-esque surrealism Curtis currently found himself living. 

Oh, and let’s not forget Wynn’s offer to displace country legend Garth Brooks from his home at the Encore Theatre for a pre-Spin private concert/party featuring Green Day, Curtis’ favorite band. (“You’re tempting fate,” Joey warned of that booking.  “The one thing that can kill this whole red or black thing are the greenies.  Who’s your second-favorite band?  Get them instead.”)

Curtis pinched the dainty porcelain Italian coffee cup between his fingers and brought it to his lips.  He looked across the aisle at Joey, who was asleep, yet twisted like a Keith Haring character in the oversized throne of an other-worldly-class airline seat.  With no access to a cellular or wi-fi signal, Joey’s connection to his Twitter feed was lost, which seemed to deprive him of all energy.  Unplugged may be a fine state for a rock band on MTV or in a cozy club, but it left Joey deflated, out of commission and ultimately silenced. At least until landing.

Which was a blessing for Curtis, who could finally find a few minutes to concentrate on the daily report prepared for him by Lisa.  She opted out of the Vegas portion of this jaunt to concentrate on finalizing the three-day media whirlwind of major talk shows and news outlets in Los Angeles (one of her shrewdest moves was convincing the Wynn organization to pay for a prominent publicist who had pumped up and placed other viral phenoms).  Working this close to her shone Lisa in a different light; beneath her frivolous and decorative veneer was a harder-working pro than Curtis could’ve ever imagined, notwithstanding her success as a money manager.  The semi-superficial schmoozer was part of the act. 

Curtis wondered if her recent come-ons were as well.  (Come to think of it, he wondered if they were even come-ons at all.)  With Miranda out of the picture—except for the lawsuit, of course—Lisa seemed to drop pretenses and jar his brain with comments like “This is just the beginning for us” and “Who knows how far we can go together?”  She had also invited him to be on her arm as her date at her firm’s star-dripping annual Christmas Charity Ball in New York, saying that “the exposure will be a good thing for both of us.”

He pulled out a clear plastic folder from his Marc Jacobs messenger bag, a good luck present his parents bought for him, spread out Lisa’s daily brief (not so much anymore as it had now grown to three pages) on the tray in front of him, and read…shaking his head slightly in disbelief with every new bold paragraph heading.

OFFICIAL CAR

I know you’re partial to BMW with your “Dance with/first-in” policy, but I’m urging you—BEGGING YOU!!!—to take the Ferrari offer. Red is their DNA, and they don’t want to lose this to the Germans.  Drive up to the casino in a 599 GTB Grand Fiorano (did you see the star mag wheels?) and it’s YOURS!!!  So is $250,000 if you do a promotional photo shoot and give them logo placement on Spin day.  And they’ll fly you to any F1 races you want to see for the next year (as their VIP guest!!!) 

OFFICIAL DRINK

Joey was right.  And this is unprecedented.  We got Red Bull AND Johnnie Walker Black.  Not just both of them, but both of them TOGETHER!!!  They’ve agreed to CO-BRAND a new mixed drink called “The HeadSpin,” basically Bull and Black shaken together like a martini.  Gotta give them logo placement on Spin day and agree to appear live in person at 10 bar promotions over six months.  But it’s worth $200,000.  EACH!!!

LOGO PLACEMENT

Good news—you’ll be wearing Armani.  They like the fact that Ferrari may—WILL!!!—be part of this…an Italian thing, I guess.  Anyway, they’ll outfit you, head-to-toe from today (actually, as of our trip to LA. when I take you to their celebrity outfitting showroom) until the end of next year, and integrate all the logo patches we need.  And they’re interested in follow-along projects, too.  $125,000 plus $10,000 EVERY TIME you mention their name on-air or in a national print story.

SPEAKING ENGAGEMENTS

Hope you’re sitting.  You said you were the mouthpiece for Snowballs, right?  You spoke at all the industry conferences and the audiences loved you, right?  Well, you’d better be able to live up to your hype, because I got you hooked up with the WASHINGTON SPEAKERS BUREAU!!!  Yeah, you and Elie Wiesel, Tony LaRussa, Arianna Huffington, Tom Peters, Dubya Bush…need I go on?  You START at $35,000 per chat, which are MAX one hour!!!  Already got three booked—National Entrepreneur’s Conference (San Francisco) and Worldwide Gaming Summit (New York) in January and CTIA (Atlanta) in the fall.  More to come!

OTHER ENDORSEMENTS

These are some of the categories we are trying to lock down.  Only categories in which we have received at least one firm offer are listed.

• Mobile Phone
• Athletic Shoe
• Breakfast Cereal
• Casual Dining Chains
• Pizza Delivery
• Luxury Watch
• SLR Camera
• Bank
• Beer
• Credit Card
• Shaving Product
• Pet Food (Can’t forget the doggies!!!)
• Airline
• Energy Snack
• Cruise Line

MISCELLANEOUS

Read these carefully, Curtis.  They are “bubbling under,” but still important.  Especially the last one!!!

1)   The WWE called.  They want you to be what they call a “guest ring announcer” at Wrestlemania XXX (roman numerals for 30; don’t get scared!)  Fee is only $20,000, but it’s post-Spin and good for our future

2)   Bodyguards.  I know we spoke of this before, but money attracts crazies.  We don’t want nothing to happen to you before The Spin.  After that, we’ll re-evaluate, ha ha.  But I found a great company; big guys, will take a bullet, and VERY discrete.  NO HEAD-BASHING, I know…

3)   Still embryonic (love that term!!!) but could be the biggest of all.  Got a call from Mike Darnell’s office at Fox.  He’s the guy in charge of, also the brains behind, all those wild reality shows there.  American Idol and evetything after!  They want to talk about the possibility of a live special the night of The Spin.  Still vague, but they’d need to work a three-way with the casino to move forward, so I guess we can—we WILL!!!—explore further once you and Joey lock things down with the Wynn-folk (love that term, don’t you?  Sounds so homey!!!)

“Mr. Stanfield?” The perky flight attendant derailed his train of thought. “Can you please put your tray up?  We’re in our final approach to McCarron Airport.”

“No problem,” Curtis said.  He didn’t even have time to digest the page labeled LOS ANGELES MEDIA PLAN but caught a glimpse of names like JAY LENO, JIMMY KIMMEL, CRAIG FERGUSON, CONAN O'BRIEN, L.A. TIMES, CNN and VARIETY in Lisa's bold caps as he shuffled his papers into their plastic sheath and tucked that into his bag’s back pocket.

“Good morning, amigo,” Joey croaked, re-assembling into a reasonable facsimile of a human being.  “How’d you sleep?” 

“Couldn’t if I wanted to,” Curtis smiled, his head still buzzing from the report.  He was tired, but it was a good fatigue, one that came with a sense of accomplishment…although he hadn’t really done anything yet.

About ten seconds after touchdown, as was his tradition in the years criss-crossing the continent for SnowBalls, Curtis turned on his iPhone, amazingly beating Joey to the punch.  He smiled.  He only had one new message.  Such is the case without Miranda (she’ll be back, he kept thinking) and with Joey next to him.

Steve Wynn’s ground staff boarded the plan and swiftly grabbed his and Joey’s bags.  Curtis put on his sunglasses as he exited the plane and headed down the tarmac to the glistening ebony limo that awaited him.  He pumped up the phone’s volume to hear the message as he walked. 

“Uh…um…Curtis?  It’s Andrea.”

Her message was blurted out in spurts, in between gasped breaths and muffled sobs. 

“I don’t know how…to tell you this…but when I was walking the dogs on Blake Street this morning…Rockwell…Rockwell…well…Rockwell got hit by a car…”

Steve Wynn’s ground staff dropped the bags and swiftly grabbed Curtis as he fell to his knees.

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To be continued next week...

The Spin, Chapter 9: The Sheer Array of Magnetic Opportunity

We're getting closer to the end than the beginning.  And I'm enjoying the increasing absurdity of the adventure.  This week--a little but of sadness is plowed under by the tidal waves of opportunity. Enjoy!

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The Spin 

 

Chapter 9:

The Sheer Array of

Magnetic Opportunity

Miranda’s note had an immediate effect on Team Curtis, increasing it in size (either 50% or 33%, depending on whether you count Curtis himself as a team member) with the addition of Sidney Tusk, the sharply dressed and sharp-toothed divorce lawyer.

“I don’t get it,” Curtis quasi-bleated to Joey and Lisa.  “We weren’t even married.  This is absurd.” 

“Tell that to the state legislature of Colorado,” Lisa replied.  Twice divorced, she knew the ropes…and knew that if you didn’t, they’d quickly twist into a noose and hang you.  She spoke using the terms that were used to her advantage during her most recent relationship breakdown.  “You cohabitated, you had joint financial responsibilities, and the way you two carried on, you openly held yourself out to the public as married.  But don’t worry, Sidney will look after you and make it as painless as possible.”

“At least you get to keep the dogs,” Joey chimed in without looking up from tapping out more tweets on his iPhone.

“Yeah,” Curtis sighed, “but now I’m gonna have to hire a dog-walker or some service to pick up the slack.”

“That should be your biggest problem,” said Lisa.

And at the present moment, Miranda situation aside, it was.  Team Curtis had been together for less than a week, and the deals were rolling in without much outgoing effort on its part.  The Spin had essentially taken on a life of its own, and as things are apt to happen in an aggressively competitive, hysterically hyperlinked era, seemingly intelligent and responsible corporate types were fighting over themselves like frenzied mid-west Black Friday shoppers in a desperate effort to be part of it.

So, on this Saturday night at Lux, perhaps Denver’s hippest, see-and-be-scene, what had started out being a friendly get-together to ostensibly “discuss strategy” had turned into a no-nonsense status update of a project that had the potential to snowball out of proportion if not kept in check.  Now a trio unbound by the constraints of Miranda’s doubt, they spread papers and iPads over the trendy tablecloth of one of Lux’s cherished back-wall tables and tried to get a grip on the most recent wheeling-and-dealing.

“This may not be the best location to do this,” said Curtis through an incessant flow of waves, handshakes and well-wishers. 

“Nonsense,” purred Lisa as she laid luminous lipstick tracks on an extra-wide martini glass.  “You are on display.  The featured attraction in the latest human zoo.  Sit back, relax and smile.  They’ll be doing the brunt of the work for us.”

By now, Curtis had cashed out his accounts with Pena Mauropam and Al Horowitz, the two remaining members of his one-time Fab Four of financial advisors.  Despite his condo and a few other hard assets being frozen—at least in his head—by the Miranda situation, his total liquid assets available to go double-or-nothing on The Spin was an eye-opening $3,878,422.97.  In a private ceremony that marked the end of his days being on the receiving end of the stomach-punch of his monthly investment statements, he placed the entire amount in the safekeeping of a FDIC-insured US Treasury Bill that paid some negligible amount of interest, popped open a bottle of champagne, downed a glass, and poured the rest over the four envelopes that confirmed the closing of his accounts.  A bit childish, but fulfilling nonetheless.

Normally, it would be hard to concentrate through the buzz of humanity overlaid by the intricate, triple-track work of Lux’s DJ, but the sheer array of opportunity laid out before Curtis was magnetic:

--The casino bidding war had now escalated to six mega-properties vying to be “The Official Home of The Spin.”  Perks now being bandied about included an “appearance bonus” like the ones given to top golfers or tennis players to merely show up at certain tournaments; special edition casino chips—red on one side, black on the other—emblazoned with Curtis’ face; the opportunity to program a mega after-party, including a live appearance from amongst a dozen of the top bands currently touring; as well as a permanent structure, either a statue or art installment commemorating The Spin.

--Sponsors were tossing proposals like coins in the Trevi Fountain, making wishes for Joey to grant.  “The genius of all this,” Joey remarked, “is that the ‘Red or Black’ outcome opens the door to two sponsor groups at the same time”…which allowed him to field pie-in-the-sky offers from companies as diverse as Red Bull, Red Lobster and the Red Cross on one side, and Johnnie Walker Black, Black & Decker and Blackberry on the other.

--There was the somewhat lunatic fringe side as well.  Schwinn, the legendary bicycle maker, pitched the idea of setting the Guinness World Record for Largest-Ever Spin Class by hauling 1,750 exercise bikes to whatever casino Curtis finally decides to call home.   Anti-gambling groups, most notably Washington’s Stop Predatory Gambling, were assembling and were planning to use The Spin as a focal point for a full-court-press mass protest.  And none other than Simon Cowell himself had sent a lawyer’s letter requesting that Curtis and co. refrain from using the #RedorBlack hashtag as it conflicted with his company’s British TV gameshow of the same name. “Foolish nuisance crap,” assured Sidney, even though this was out of his area of legal expertise.  “That bitter prick can’t stake claim to the entire color spectrum.”

With the appearance of three stunning, embarrassingly-underdressed waitresses at the table, Joey and Lisa had to gather up the assorted clutter to make room for their main courses.   As he shifted over in the leather banquette to accommodate the pile of paper and pads, he reflected on his life.

Maybe it was the liquor, maybe the euphoria of all the opportunity his plan put before him, but right about now, he was feeling pretty good.  Yes, his long-time relationship had come to a screeching halt, but that probably would’ve happened with or without The Spin, he rationalized.  Ahhh, she’ll be back, he rationalized further.  And if not, he continued to rationalize, he’ll find someone better.

What’s more, the adventure, the attention, the future had managed to lift the monthly anguish of volatility.  Not that everything was clear-cut, but the unpredictability now put before Curtis Stanfield was of a different type.  No more would he agonize between choosing the lesser of two evils; now all he had to do was choose between the greater of two goods.  Or three goods.  Or even four or five at times.

This type of volatility he could live with.

There was nowhere to go but up.

He raised his glass, and proposed a toast that left both Joey and Lisa with a slightly perplexed smile.

“To up!”

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To be continued next week...

The Spin, Chapter 8: Taking One For The Team

Sorry about the one-week delay (I fantasize that anyone cares) but a dental emergency, some Sunday meetings and prepping for a Monday morning trip to Los Angeles made it had to get anything done creatively last weekend.  That said, this week's chapter flowed like the rapids, moving the story ahead and further developing two important support characters...and creating conflict with another.  Have fun.

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The Spin 

 

Chapter 8:

Taking One For The Team

On Monday, October 21^st Curtis Stanfield underwent a Kafka-esque transition.  For no longer was he a human being; Curtis Stanfield was now a corporate entity.  At first, the realization left him a bit discomforted and ill at ease, almost cockroachian.  But the flesh-and-blood to business conversion was a necessary headspace if he was going to go through with his ultimate plans for The Spin. 

While no organizational structure genius, he knew the basics of setting up a company from his early days at SnowBalls, a memory that helped sooth his psyche and equated him to a rip-roaring start-up rather than a faceless corporation.

In essence, Curtis Stanfield—well, the risk-taking, Spin-making Curtis Stanfield—was the product.  And as the product, he felt he needed a rudimentary support system:

• A Chief Marketing Officer, to sell it and manage its image
• A Chief Financial Officer, to manage its financial success 

The choice for the former was a no-brainer: Joey Mitchelson.  A look-nowhere-else slam dunk.  Not only did Joey believe in Curtis’s quest, but his throwaway tweet was the Gladwell-esque tipping point that turned what could’ve been a mere desperate whim into what was to become a wild reality. 

As for the latter, Curtis reluctantly turned toward Patrick Singer at Petrason Wealth.  He loved Pat; he was one of his oldest friends.  But deep down he knew Pat wasn’t the shrewdest of his Fab Four, yet made the decision more to appease Miranda than for the betterment of “the business,” as he was now thinking of himself.

Joey was the easy sell.  He agreed to be in before Curtis even finished asking him.  To Joey, The Spin was a franchise—give it life Year One and it mutates year-after-year in an ever-expansive form.  No moving parts, no raw materials, no factories or investment capital needed to get the product out the door.   Just a bag of air, really; a story that could be wrapped in increasingly mesmeric layers of hype and commerce.   For him, The Spin wasn’t just a dream project, but THE dream project.

Things didn’t go down as easily with Pat, though.  The encounter at his all-window corner office started off on a somewhat down note, with Curtis requesting to liquidate all his Petrason holdings first, and explain why second.

“Everything…everything…everything...” Patrick kept repeating sotto voce, shaking his head slowly, before finally adding “...on a spin of a roulette wheel.”

“Uh yeah,” Curtis replied sheepishly. 

“Curtis, you realize that you could be left with nothing,” Pat warned. 

“Indeed, but it won’t go down that way.  I’m getting all kinds of crazy offers.  Financial and otherwise.  This is a business…and one I want you to help me run it as the CFO.  It’s not a full-time position; it’s a sideline, a hobby for you.  A couple of hours a week.  A weekend here and there…”

Patrick stopped him there.

“Curtis, I love you, but you’re nuts.  I can’t stop you from converting my years of hard work on your behalf into cash and then risking it all on some ridiculous bet.  But I can’t condone it, either.  I can’t work on it!  It makes a mockery of my profession, of what I do to make a living.  If I support your spin, what does that say to all the other people who put their faith and their savings in my hands?”

“It says you’re a loyal friend?” Curtis answered sing-songly with another question.  “Seriously Pat, what’s the difference between the casino and the stock market anyway?  It’s all just a gamble.”

“Tell that to the Petrason family,” Pat grinned, thinking of the four generations of Petrasons who established a multi-billion dollar financial services monstrosity. “Or to Miranda."

Curtis winced slightly.  He didn’t think Pat noticed, but he sure enough felt the awkward facial twinge.

“It’ll take 48 hours, but by Thursday or Friday, you’ll have your cheque.  And no more reason to call me…other than getting together for a beer or something.” 

“Still friends, though…” Curtis said cautiously.

“I question your sanity, not your character.  I’ll always be there to pick up a meal or two if all goes to shit.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“I’ll try to suck every last penny of yours back here.”

One in.  One out.  One more try.

“Well, if I’m gonna live dangerously, I’d better live REALLY fucking dangerously,” Curtis thought to himself. 

Next stop, next day—Lisa Mankoff.  A touchy choice, but hey, even Miranda suggested it so… 

If Joey was an easy sell, Lisa was Joey with lubrication. She understood the potential of The Spin instinctively and bought into the story before Curtis even got to the verb.

A shrewd cookie wrapped in a dangerous coating of Angel Dust, Lisa played out The Spin’s long-term Lisa-benefits in milliseconds.  A piece of the action on everything incoming.  A bigger piece of the windfall if Curtis correctly chooses the payoff color for The Spin.  And the publicity, oh the publicity!  The connection to something so outrageous, with the potential of going international, would do wonders for her brazen reputation.

There was absolutely no downside.  Curtis’s holdings at her company were, in perspective, infinitesimal.  Removing them from her client asset base would be like cracking one of her long, impeccably manicured false fingernails; a minor nuisance quickly repaired and forgotten within minutes.  A few clicks on her keyboard and Curtis was a former client due a cheque of about $850,000.

“I’m in, and we’re on,” she said, long blonde tresses flowing from a head shake that was much more animated than Pat’s.  “What’s the next step?”

“Well, I was thinking about a strategy dinner with you, me and Joey on Thurs…”

Lisa cut him off in between syllables.

“No can do.  Thursday I have the Tulip Ball at the Museum.”

“Friday?”

“Invited to the launch of the new Versace collection at H&M”

“Uh, Saturday?”

“You mean a date?” she cooed. 

“Umm…I guess. But with Joey.  And Miranda, I guess.”

“You’re still with that girl?  She’s lucky.”

A quasi-compliment, Curtis thought, but dipped in Brio, the bitter Italian soft drink.

“I’m sure I can squeeze four into Lux, even on a Saturday.  See you then,” she said while tapping out a note to her assistant to set up the reservation.   “And Curtis…this is going to be some new sort of fun.  Can’t wait.”

Buoyed by her enthusiasm, Curtis sung along to his satellite radio’s Pop channel all his way home.  The only matter still stuck in his craw was how he was going to explain to Miranda that she would be spending Saturday night with the dreaded Lisa Mankoff.

But as is often the case with fear, all his worrying was for naught, though. 

Because when Curtis came home, he found Miranda’s note.

The one that explained that Patrick had told her everything as soon as he left his office.

The one that explained that Lisa Mankoff had not only sent out a media release about her association to Curtis and The Spin, but that her assistant had tracked down Miranda on her cellphone to tell her about Saturday’s reservation.

The one that explained that she’s leaving.   And not quietly either. 

The one that explained that as his long-term companion, his common-law wife, she’s suing him for half his assets.  Now.

The roulette wheel and the casinos and the publicity would have to wait.  At this moment, The Spin was taking place inside Curtis’s head.

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To be continued next week...

The Spin, Chapter 7: As Dominos Fall

This week was perhaps the toughest since starting the story; I wanted to move it ahead by showcasing some of the absurdity that befells Curtis after Joey leaks/Tweets his intention to bet his life on "The Spin," but did not want it to move too slow nor too fast.  As the Carpenters sang, "We've only just begun" to examine the madness about to take over Curtis Stanfield's life.  Hope this is enough to keep your interest.

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The Spin 

 

Chapter 7:

As Dominos Fall

That clickity-clacking sound you hear were the dominos falling around Curtis Stanfield. 

Since the call from Joel Fischman—well, since the Tweet from Joel Mitchelson, actually—his life resembled one of those Guinness Book of World Record TV shows where some obsessive Japanese guy with too much time on his hands sets up a multi-tracked course of hundreds of thousands of dominos, and prematurely sets them in motion by absent-mindedly bumping into one of ‘em.

Fischman’s seductive call was followed by three other similar reach-outs from Caesar’s Entertainment, MGM Resorts International and native-run Foxwoods Resort; each one upping the ante (with Foxwoods being the most blatantly aggressive) with their come-to-us proposals.  Private planes.  Three-story presidential suites.  Food, drink and a line of casino credit.  Backstage visits to superstar shows.  The kind of perks tossed at the feet of the highest of their high-rollers.

And that was just from the American/”bricks & mortar” side.  Also dangling “spin here” packages in front of Curtis were Ladbrokes, the British-based online casino (“You made your money in high tech,” they said. “This is the future of gambling, too.  The message is so utterly coherent!), and the obscenely large Venetian Macao in Macau (“The biggest move in your life should be made at the biggest casino in the world,” was their pitch), which offered to fly Curtis, his entire family, six friends of his choice and his dogs in his own first class section of the new Boeing 787 Dreamliner to get him over there.

Yet that was just one path racing out of control.  Like those wacky domino toppling exhibitions, Curtis’s life was a simultaneous chain reaction of action, madly off in different directions, each one unique and off-beat.

There were dozens of requests for interviews from media outlets ranging in size from the local freebie newspaper tossed into apartment building lobbies to the New York Times; from Howard Stern on SiriusXM to Anderson Cooper on CNN.

There were sponsorship pitches from a seven different high-end clothing manufacturers vying for him to wear their brands in public from now until the day of the spin, as well as from BMW and Scion offering up their cars as his “official transportation.”

Then there were threats from anti-gambling groups, bemoaning the fact that his decision would have a negative ripple effect upon Americans, particularly the lower income bracket who already spend a disproportionate amount of their take-home pay on the lottery and other games of chance.  (Curtis was creeped out that they managed to track down his mobile number, but did get a chuckle when the anonymous message ominously warned that “The sum total of all numbers on a roulette wheel adds up to 666!”)

It was almost too much for Curtis to comprehend.  While the calls and emails and texts were coming directly to him, it felt as if this was all happening to someone else, and he was just a spectator.  All this, in less than two days.

Thankfully, today was Sunday, his self-enforced day of exile from reality.  This tradition was a throwback to the time spent at SnowBalls where without a forced day of rest, he and his compadres would’ve burned out long before building their business. 

Curtis learned to love Sundays.  He would sleep in, take his dogs to the park for hours, go to the gym, sip coffee and catch up on the physical and digital reading that would inevitably pile up.  To him Sunday wasn’t a “real” day; it was a pseudo day where everything ran at 3/4 speed.  Yes, stores were open, and things were happening…but not really.  To him, it was a 24-hour suck on a suspended animation straw.  His ultimate goal—a lifetime of Sundays.

But this Sunday reminded Curtis of some of his earliest “forced rest” Sundays, which were way more stress than bliss.  On this Sunday, there were so many conflicting messages and requests buzzing inside his head, on his phone, on his iPad and in his face that he decided to take advantage of some vacation days owed and take the upcoming week off work.

Not to take it easy, though.  The way Curtis figured it, he had five days to build a team to help him deal with what was happening.  And cope with what was about to come.

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To be continued next week...

The Spin, Chapter 6: One Unheard Message

The inspiration for this chapter was Chapter 5 of my book Pow! Right Between The Eyes; every page of it was bathed in a grey screen just so that it stood out from the rest of the book.  The original idea here was to advance the story only by using replicas of Tweets, voicemail messages and email, but I realized that the dialogue encounter between Curtis and Miranda would only make the chapter's end punch even stronger, so...  Still, I dig its difference.  Enjoy!

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The Spin

 

Chapter 6:

One Unheard Message

 

Please enter your password. 

You have seven unheard messages and two saved messages. 

First message, received today at 9:22 a.m.:  “Curtis, it’s Miranda.  Can you call me as soon as possible? Thanks.”

Second message, received today at 9:47 a.m.: “Hello sweetie, it’s Mom.  I just got a call from Miranda looking for you.  She sounded, uh, scared.  Is everything all right?  Please call me and Dad at home and let us know that you’re okay.  If we’re not home, we’re going to brunch with the Kleins, so call Dad’s cell.  Or my cell.  Bye!” 

Third message, received today at 9:49 a.m.:  “Curtis, it’s me again.  Where the hell are you?  I’m at the house waiting for you.”

Fourth message, received today at 10:15 a.m.:  Click.

Fifth message, received today at 10: 21 a.m.: Click.

Sixth message, received today at 10: 25 a.m.: Click. 

Seventh message, received today at 10: 29 a.m.: Click.

------------------------------------------------

Pierre Rosemere (@Pirose) mentioned you on Twitter! “@CurtisStan you is some crazy mofo, but good luck with the spin. #RedorBlack  #crazymofo”

Sylvia Carr (@SylviaCarr) mentioned you on Twitter!  “I bet you don’t have too much life savings, or too much of a life @CurtisStan! #RedorBlack"

Joey Mitchelson @JoEem) replied to a message from Sylvia Carr (@Sylvia Carr) on Twitter! “Ain’t we pretentious!  I’ll take both bets.  How much YOU layin’ down?”

Bob Ansell (@BigBob) mentioned you on Twitter!  “@CurtisStan remember the prophetic words of Supertramp—You know the roulette wheel’s/a crooked deal”! #RedorBlack" 

Jim Hadzipetros (@JimmydaGreek) mentioned you on Twitter! “Biggest balls I’ve seen since Evel Knievel at Snake River Canyon! Go get ‘em, boy! #RedorBlack”

Maggie’s Farm (@MaggiesFarm) mentioned you on Twitter!  “@CurtisStan put your faith in Jesus and not in the den of Satan.  You should know and do better #bangambling"

Linda Harrison (@LindaHarrison), Rhoda Kath (@rkath), Rob Stevens (@Rstevens) and 174 others are now following you on Twitter!

------------------------------------------------

From: Patrick Singer <[email protected]>
Date: Sun, 27 Nov 2011 11:31:14 -0400
To: <[email protected]>
Subject: We gotta talk…

Hey Curtis,

Rare is the Sunday I reach out to you for anything other than football, but I really think we need to sit down this week and discuss your financials.  Miranda just called me and she said that you are about to do something rash.  I don’t care about my commish buddy, it’s just that I don’t want you to piss away what we’ve worked so hard to maintain…and grow.

Cal me today or tomorrow or as soon as you can.

Thanks,

Pat

------------------------------------------------

Danny MacDonald (@DanMac) mentioned you on Twitter! “Come on @CurtisStan use ur head. Bet half on a hand of blackjack. If u win u got a nicer nest egg; If u lose u get to bet the other half. Barring this, I would show some real balls & go black 22.”

Morris St. Victor (@MstVictor) mentioned you on Twitter! “Red?  Red?  Don’t even think of it @CurtisStan!  Don’t you know that once you go Black, you don’t go back? #RedorBlack

Joey Mitchelson (@JoEem) mentioned you on Twitter!  “Guess who’s trending?  Unreal!  My man @CurtisStan right up there with #schoolscandal and #BieberVsBeatles.  Vive #RedorBlack!”

Hiroki Iwai (@HIwai), Yosuke Innoue (@YosukeInnoue), Kamal Patel (@KPatel) , Ioan Covanescu (@IoanCovanescu), Vladimir Lefkovsky(@VladLev), Macau Hi-Roller (@MacauHi) and 2,981 others are now following you on Twitter!

------------------------------------------------

Curtis was stlll in a state of gape-mouthed awe, eyes still glued to his iPhone as he opened the door to his house.   He couldn’t believe that he was the unlikely source of two-and-a-half hours of madness while cocooned by his headphones and distracted by his workout playlist at the gym.

As usual upon entry, he was met with the unbridled joy of his two dogs, who raced down the hallway and launched themselves at his midsection; their way of saying hello.

But that was the only joy he was to encounter that Sunday mid-afternoon.  Looking up from the pups he saw Miranda, standing arm-crossed and brow-furrowed.  She tapped her foot impatiently, like a schoolmarm about to reprimand a delinquent student.

“Hey!” Curtis said, breaking the chill.

“Are you fucking crazy?” she yelped. 

Curtis stayed silent, thinking she would’ve responded with “Don’t ‘Hey’ me!” instead of immediately launching into a tirade.

“You’re joking about this, right?  Risking our life savings on a roulette spin?”

Curtis tried a diversionary tactic. 

“What do you mean OUR life savings?” 

Bad move.

“Curtis, I’ve been with you for six years. Lived with you for three years.  If you think that this doesn’t affect me, you’re stupider than I thought.”

He didn’t appreciate the way she pronounced “stupider,” a word she spat out to rhyme with “Jupiter.”  She was always somewhat condescending at this time of the month, but this was meant to injure, not just embarrass. 

“Chill out…relax.  I didn’t say I was actually gonna do it.  I just asked Joey for his advice.”

Worse move.

“Joey?  Joey Mitchelson?  Oh please, he’s a con man, an idiot!  Look who he asks!  A comic-book character in overpriced jeans.  Your parents are freaking out about this!  If you want a real opinion about dealing with your money, why don’t you ask Pat?”

“Screw Pat!  You seem to forget that if not for Joey, I wouldn’t have this money in the first place!”

“Curtis please, this is our future.  This isn’t anything to joke about, or be cavalier with.” 

“Yeah, but it’s also my present.  My life.  I’m bored.  I’m not happy any more.  I need a change.  And every month when you bring me home those statements, I tense up to the point of puking.  I can’t handle the goddamn volatility!”

Miranda downshifted into supportive understanding.  She had endured such financial panic attacks like this a few times before.

“So let’s deal with that. There are other ways.  Fixed income.  Safe investments.  Stuff that will let you sleep at night.  Come on honey, speak to Pat.  Or the other three.  I bet even Lisa will take time off from going to some charity ball to help you.”

That was a bit of a dig.  Miranda disliked Lisa Mankoff and mocked the bubbly blonde’s social-climbing ways every chance she got…which were many.  She was still a bit bothered that Curtis didn’t let Patrick and Petrason Wealth take care of his entire portfolio, but that niggling slight was far down on the hurt list at this time.  

Nonetheless, Miranda’s softening had done the trick, knocking Curtis into second-guess mode.  Maybe this was all a knee-jerk reaction.  His path was usually one of reason, of rational thinking.  Maybe ultra low-risk fixed income was indeed the way to go.  Or perhaps a big honking safe filled with cash, a modern-day stuffed mattress.  It was fun to free-wheel think for a bit, but really…

His soothing thoughts were interrupted by an iPhone bark.  That semi-irritating attention-grabber was his ringtone of choice, a tribute to his beloved pooches.  He instinctively reached out to answer.

“Curtis, leave it,” Miranda cooed, sensing his mood changing.  “We’re talking.  Is it your parents?”

He looked at his screen.  It was a number he had never seen before, certainly not the caller ID Mom & Dad.

“No.”  

“Then forget it.  Talk to me.  Let’s talk about your present…and our future.” 

After a few more seconds, the barks subsided.  Curtis let the call go directly to voicemail.

“Hmmm,” he thought.  “Who do I know in the 702 area code?”

------------------------------------------------

Please enter your password. 

You have one unheard message and two saved messages. 

First message, received today at 1:14 p.m.:  “Hey Curtis.  So sorry to bother you on a Sunday.  My name is Joel Fischman and I got your number by tracking down one of your friends, Joey Mitchelson.  I work for Steve Wynn as the head of marketing for the Wynn and the Encore in Las Vegas and I’ve been reading a few tweets about you today.  Well, more than a few, actually.  If you are really serious about your red or black bet, call me.  I would love you to consider one of the Wynn properties as the place to spin the wheel.  I’m sure we can make it worth your while.  You can get me any time at this number: (702) 871-….”

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To be continued next week...

The Spin, Chapter 5: #RedorBlack?

The words flowed easily this week, much to mys surprise, as I was kinda worried how I would handle the first big dialogue-driven encounter between two of the story's characters.  Seems that putting words in one's mouth comes kinda naturally for yours truly.  And so the tale marches on!

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The Spin

 

Chapter 5:

#RedorBlack

For Joey Mitchelson, early breakfast meetings were his professional encounters of choice.  He considered them a nicely-timed break after already being on the go for about three hours.  Calling Joey “hyper-kinetic” was an understatement; he was perpetual motion who lived and slept and breathed self-motivation so much so that the tech Gods he revered—Apple’s Steve Jobs and Amazon’s Jeff Bezos to name just two—seemed like slackers in his frothy wake. 

Not only was Joey the most influential of the “Speedbump Trio” that convinced Curtis to take the plunge in SnowBalls, he was also the first to clash with the new owners and forge out on his own in pursuit of yet another impossible dream.  He had now rid himself of all corporate offices and baggage and morphed his mathematics background and big win into a successful start-up business consultancy (though he preferred the eye-rolling tag of “change agent”); a one-man show, with the emphasis on “show.”   For his astute advice, fiery bluster and wide-reaching contacts, he was paid a healthy upfront fee, and took pieces of a company’s back-end (either as equity or stock options or even liens on equipment) as well.  He was perfectly positioned, a no-lose situation every time. 

While not his best friend on earth, the no-bullshit, iconoclastic, former partner was the one Curtis trusted to be the one to hear—and comment on—his “all or nothing” financial plan before anyone else. 

Naturally, Joey was the first to arrive at Skippy’s, the old-school coffee shop turned ne plus ultra hip day-breaker.  Sliding arms-up into one of the salmon-colored booths at the back, he pulled out his iPhone and tossed out his 17^th and 18^th Tweets of the day while waiting.  No matter what his primary task, Joey always seemed to communicate elsewhere while doing it.  Because of this. Joey had become one of the blogosphere’s fave and most followed fixtures.  All the new-world metrics (Twitter followers, Facebook friends, LinkedIn connections, Google search results, etc.) combined with his wit, insight and outlandish way of communicating them, made him a pseudo star.  Granted, few would recognize him in a bar or on the street or at the back of a coffee shop waiting for one of his former brothers-in-arms, but toss the name Jo•E•Em onto the Internet and almost instantly, you can feel the buzz he generates. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Curtis puffed as he crash-landed in the seat across from Joey, “but I had…”

“I had to walk the dogs, and they wouldn’t piss, and they took their time eating,” Joey replied, finishing Curtis’s excuse, as his fingers continued to fly across his phone’s touch screen.  “Not only did I expect this, but I actually went as far as to order for both of us, tell the waitress that you’re paying, and that you’ll be leaving her a huge tip.”

Rather than be embarrassed by the call out, Curtis felt comforted.  Joey knew his peculiarities and made a habit of overlooking them.  More importantly, Joey understood him.  They’d been through “The Wars” together, and while not Vietnam or Afghanistan, they’d held onto each other tight on the countless times when SnowBalls teetered on the verge of bankruptcy, closure or irrelevance. 

“Joey, I’ve got something nuts to run by you.”

“Something nuts from you?  What…you wanna rotate your tires?  Buy a new winter coat?”

“I want to change my life.”

“You’re pulling a Chas Bono?”

“Uh, somewhat.  Financially, though.”

“Now you’ve got my attention,” Joey said, head springing up and looking Curtis in the eye for the first time since he sat down.

“I wanna go double or nothing with my life…with my life’s savings, I mean.”

“You wanna go in on the Dolphin deal?”

Dolphin was Joey’s latest real estate play, a conversion of six blocks of waning San Francisco retail frontage into Internet-based office, storage and mail-order fulfillment space.

“Nah, thanks but too long to wait for the payoff.  If any.  What I mean is a literal double or nothing.  I want to put everything I have on either Red or Black on one spin of a Roulette wheel.” 

“Waitress!” Joey raised his hand and shouted.  “Another coffee for me and a demitasse of sanity for my friend here!”

It took him a few minutes, but Curtis massaged Joey’s incredulousness and ridicule into a semblance of cynical comprehension.  Joey knew well of Curtis’s monthly volatility crisis, and soon came to not just sympathize with Curtis’s plan, but admire it.  He shook his head in slight affirmation.

“You know it’s not an exact 50:50 chance you’ve got on Red or Black,” he said while wiping some stray peanut butter off the side of his mouth.  “The Greenies, the 0 and 00, can bite you in the ass.  The house has to have some sort of advantage on everything, or it ain’t gonna stay in business.  I think it’s more like 47:53…in favor of the house.” 

“Spoken like a true ex-programmer,” Curtis laughed.  “But in the end, really, how often does 0 or 00 come up?”

“As often as any other number.  It’s totally random.” 

“So’s my idea.

“Indeed!”

Joey chewed on his thoughts for a few seconds and leaned in. 

“Listen buddy, it’s nuts.  Makes no sense.  Ridiculous.  But so was leaving Speedbump to start SnowBalls and look where that left us.  It left you in the position to do something so damn crazy.  If you can live with the reality that in one spin, you have to re-set your life back to square one, then more power to you. “

“But there’s an equal chance that the reality doubles my money and clears my head…”

“Not equal,” Joey warned again. “About 47%.  And who’s to say that even with double the cash in hand, you still won’t be reading your monthly statements?”

“I thought about that, but no…I know me.  I think I know me.  I know what’s enough.  If I can live with the down, I can most definitely live with the up.”

“Well if that’s the case, you can start right now,” Joey said as he pushed the breakfast bill towards Curtis.

No ex-programmer nor math major he, but Curtis was no fool when it came to playing the odds.  Asking Joey for a blessing was a calculated risk, but one tilted heavily in his favor.  Had he turned to Miranda, or any one of the Fab Four, or frankly, anyone other than Joey, the result would’ve been different.

“My pleasure,” Curtis grinned as he grabbed the bill and made his way to the cash register.  “Didn’t know how you were gonna take this, but really appreciate the support.”

Joey looked down at his phone as Curtis headed towards Skippy’s front door.  Amazingly, he hadn’t Tweeted in about 45 minutes.  He broke his cyber-silence by typing Tweet #19 to his 274,767 followers:

My former partner @CurtisStan got some mega-balls. About to bet his life savings on one spin of a lucky—he hopes—roulette wheel. #RedorBlack

Joey Mitchelson’s message was made up of exactly 140 characters.  As he pressed “Send,” he had no idea how many more characters it would eventually unleash.

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To be continued next week...

The Spin, Chapter 4: Doubling Your Money

I kinda like where this is going.  Knowing the roadmap to this story makes me more excited to write it and find out exactly what happens (the roadmap gives me directions, but the details are still a great, uplifitng surprise to me as they unfold). 

In this week's installment, we discover the plot's first major turning point, the DNA which affects everything else right up until the famous final scene. Here we go...

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The Spin

 

Chapter 4:

Doubling Your Money

This “that time of the month again” was going to be different for Curtis.  Rather than examining his financial statements, he put them aside for a bit and chose instead to examine the rest of his life.

Grabbing a coffee from his Nespresso machine (one button, one pod; so perfect for him), Curtis sat down at the circa-1950 oak teacher’s desk that anchored his home office/den/library, jiggled the wireless mouse to fire up his giant-screened Mac, and divided up a Word doc into two columns, each headlined by a possible option for a stress-free future.

1)   Stop working. 

2)   Stop worrying. 

He realized he was one of the lucky ones.  Unlike countless millions whose fates were authored by others, Curtis actually could make what are called “lifestyle choices.”  His were drastic, but simple.

The first option was a remote possibility, but only if he would eliminate the extras he’d become accustomed to in the past two years and rigorously adhere to a rigid budget. Curtis suspected he could handle this imposition, but didn’t really want to.  It was how he lived, and without too much complaint or suffering, before the sale of SnowBalls.  The difference was that, back then, he was absolutely enamored with his job. 

Since he cashed in, to paraphrase BB King, the thrill was gone.  Although he still liked his colleagues that remained (the new owners has cut back, which was the catalyst for two of his original partners hitting the road), still liked his industry, and still liked travelling for it, he couldn’t convince anyone when he said he actually loved any or all of it.  The attraction of retiring before he was 40, and pursuing only passion projects, was heart-racingly appealing. 

The second option was also a possibility, but only, he figured, if his current nest egg was bulked up to twice its size.

And if that were indeed the case, well…both option 1 and 2 were possible simultaneously .

Curtis chuckled to himself as he typed that alternative onto his screen.  He considered calling on his financial advisors and handing them the challenge of doubling his life savings.  Then his brain swelled noticeably with the vision of their response:

They’d bring out charts and projections and plans that would show, if perchance they’d make the right choices, and if luck was on his side, and if there were no natural disasters in China, and if another dumb-ass European country didn’t overspend like drunken Beverly Hills housewives, and if no new pandemic viruses pop up, and if the western world maintains its faith in democracy and capitalism, and if Al-Quaida is defeated in Somalia, he would almost certainly double his money…in seven-to-ten years.  Provided he’d live that long.

Nope.  Case closed.  Make this a question that will go unasked to one, or all, of his Fab Four.

So Curtis turned to the next best thing—the modern-day oracle (or at least the updated Magic 8 Ball) known as Google.  Calling it up to share the screen with his lifestyle choice doc, he typed the words “How can I double my money?” into the search bar.

Within one-tenth of the time it would take for any one of his advisors to blink, Curtis was inundated with a torrent of somewhat relevant response.  Atop the list came this advice from Kin Hubbard, a humorist and journalist who died about a century ago, but one of sage economic counsel nonetheless:

“The best way to double your money

is to fold it over once

and put it in your pocket.”

Curtis chuckled again as he scanned the remaining list of get-rich-quick schemes and sketchy, less-than-legal suggestions his query attracted.  Ethiopian bankers.  Gold mines.  Rainforest jungle berry-based drinks.  Land in Florida.  At least a dozen “Next Facebooks.”  A fool’s paradise of rewards.

But—and here comes this tale’s turning point “Big But”—just as he was about to log off, tear open Miranda’s envelope and face this month’s revelation of dreaded volatility, his curser brushed by the paid search ads that snuggled the screen’s right-hand side, drawing his eyes to their respective offers. Although all different, they were harmonized—each one of the top five tried to lure him to at a casino.  In Vegas, in Macau, on native reserves, on cruise ships, or just one mouse-click away on his desktop.

Obvious by his nature, Curtis wasn’t much of a gambler.  No appeal.  True, he’d been to many a casino in his life, but usually just passing through to get from his hotel room to a conference centre while stuck there at some industry event.  His entire casino career maybe spanned the timeframe of a cross-continent flight, and was driven by childish, non-wagering ulterior motives. Over the years, he’d maybe throw away $50 or so per trip in slot machines for no reason other than to be amongst their colored lights and electronic cacophony for a few minutes, and twice he sat at the Hard Rock Casino’s roulette wheel, laying down the absolute minimum “outside bets” just to benefit from the free drinks, the ambiance of the pulsating playlist and the parade of outrageous rockstar wannabes and scandally-clad hotties that hung out there.

He thought back to one “life-saving” $10 bet he’d put on a Hard Rock Red—a win would bring him $20 and buy him time for at least one more Sam Adams; a loss would leave him chip-less and force him to surrender his seat to the over-cologned, slick-haired, Al-Pacino-in-Scarface-lookalike literally breathing down his neck.

Not the most pleasant memory in the life of Curtis Stanfield.

But perhaps the most important.

For it had spawned a plan.  A financial plan for his future. 

One that would shock his Fab Four, and perhaps leave Kin Hubbard doubled over in his grave.

One where, no matter the outcome, he would come out ahead.

One that, once and for all, with one supreme supernova of volatility, would eliminate all future financial uncertainty from his existence.

Curtis was going to lay it all on the line.

One time.

On one spin of a roulette wheel.

Literally once…and for all.

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To be continued next week...

The Spin, Chapter 3: The Stable Boy

Whew...was stuck at 250 words for a bit when suddenly the floodgates opened.  A little long at 1060 words or so, but Curtis's epic adventure needed a back-story before moving ahead to its first main plot device.  That turning point comes next week, I promise.  But this sets it up...

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The Spin

 

Chapter 3:

The Stable Boy

As a human being, Curtis Stanfield was easy to understand.  At the root of his psyche was his name—four crisp syllables, broken into two equi-lengthed pairs in staccato lock-step with each other.  Solid.  Grounded.  Stable.

More than just the descriptive adjective pinned to his personal profile since grade school (“Compared to my other students, Curtis is such a stable boy,” said Mrs. Plewa on his final fourth grade report card, which made his parents puff with pride and was the source of two years of ridicule from his older brother who would neigh like a horse and call him “Stable Boy”), stability was not merely his DNA, but his daily MO.

He wasn’t obsessive-compulsive, but his habits of consistent regularity tip-toed its fine line.  Every morning, he slipped on the same over-patched Levi’s jeans, the same torn grey Nike workout sweatshirt and the same reinforced Adidas skateboard shoes to walk his dogs before his shower, where he washed, shampooed, shaved and scrubbed his nails in exactly the same order.  Exactly 17 swipes of deodorant under each arm and 10 sprays of his cologne (five on the left arm, then rubbed with the right arm, three on his neck and two on his chest) ensured he was sweet-smelling and ready to tackle his day.  Every day.

There were other similar routines (right shoe always on first; watch, rings and bracelets on and off in precision step-by-step), but nothing visible to the human eye that would trip the alarms of eccentricity.  And that’s the way Curtis liked to live.  One straight line under the radar.  As long as that line stayed relatively stable, he was happy.

Which is why this time of the month made him so testy.  Jumpy.  Often miserable.

Curtis Stanfield’s financial statements told him, each and every month, how much money he had.  Precisely how much.  In very black-and-white, no-grey-zone terms.  The lump sum in its entirety.  And literally, to the penny. The only problem to a stability-searching soul such as his was that this lump sum was never exactly the same. 

On the months when it went down, Curtis was engulfed by a sense of hollow, deaden panic.  On the months it went up, there was a slight watercolor wash of relief that somehow still wasn’t strong enough to completely overshadow the recurrent, nagging fear that next month it may go down again and negate this month’s gain.  As Nick Lowe sang, “And so it goes, and so it goes…”  

He tried to ignore the feelings, and the papers themselves, but to no avail.  Every 30 days or so, Miranda would bring home a Pandora’s Box of anxiety in a brown legal-sized envelope, taunting him with the reverse psychology of one of those sparkly “Do Not Open!” gift boxes delivered way before Christmas.  Even on those months when his resolve was galvanized-steel reinforced, it was rapidly molten melted when his beloved soul mate put on her work hat and reminded him of the irresponsibility of not knowing where he stood financially.

Well, here’s where he stood financially: on a roller-coaster mountain of worth.  As a snowboarder, he understood the nature of peaks and valleys.  He could deal with them—enjoy them even—provided he could see them.  But to Curtis, his situation was like taking a Black Diamond run backwards in a driving blizzard with opaque goggles.

And so this ride went for the two years or so since he cashed in on the buy-out of Snowballs and put his earnings into the hands of a financial adviser.  Well, four financial advisers actually, as Curtis felt that in the era of Bernie Madoff, spreading his wealth amongst a quartet would mitigate his risk.  “What are the chances that all four, two of ‘em even, would be scum-sucking, swindling sharks?” he would tell anyone who questioned his strategy. 

Each adviser was different, and had an equally different take on the future of his future.  There was his street-smart high-school buddy, now a broker at Miranda’s firm.  There was the immigrant banker to whom he felt indebted since he provided Curtis with his first mortgage even though he didn’t really deserve one at the time.  There was the highly-profile rogue-esque trader, a young, smoking-hot blonde who made appearances at all the city’s highest-profile bashes and subsequently, in its social columns...much to the eye-rolling of Miranda.  And there was his nephew’s rotund baseball coach, who was renowned as a bond trader when not comically stuffing his body into a polyester uniform and sweaty ball cap.

His jitters ensured that he talked to them all regularly, trading off each one’s opinions and advice against the others until they somewhat balanced out into his welcomed state of equilibrium.  Strangely, on the rare occasions when they all agreed on something, it made him more nervous.  They drove him crazy and he drove them even more crazy.

And when he wasn’t talking to them, he was talking to himself.  Questioning himself, to be more specific.  He downloaded multiple iPhone apps to trail stock, bond, precious metal and commodity prices.  He tracked commercial and residential building sales to help evaluate his real estate holdings.  Everything he did on his computer screen, at home or at work, business or pleasure, was underscored by a real-time stock ticker.  He did none of this out of interest; he did all of it out of concern. 

As much as he tried to understand the investment game, he just couldn’t get it.  All the intricate financial models, all the well-analyzed predictions, all the justifying macro and micro factors, all the educational prowess and all the years of experience of his Fab Four didn’t seem to amount to much in the way of certainty.  In the end, he realized that despite all the ten-dollar words and the impressive Wall Street triple-talk, nobody really knew anything. No matter how much he tried to understand the investing process, the end result seemed more like playing the lottery or a slap-happy gambling excursion than the cause-and-effect decision-making he cherished.

Thus, every month at precisely this time, the end result was the same: Curtis’ sea of tranquility was churned into tidal waves of disarray by the mere existence of common market volatility. 

Curtis hated volatility.  Not just in the financial markets, but everywhere.

And today, after enduring 26 months of it, he realized that he had to do something about it.

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To be continued next week...

 

The Spin, Chapter 2: Speedbumps and SnowBalls

Okay, we're back with the next installment on my selfish journey...where we learn a little more about our protagonist Curtis, and a little more why he dreads his financial statements.

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The Spin

 

Chapter 2:

Speedbumps and Snowballs

By most measures, Curtis Stanfield was rich.  Not obnoxious Trump-esque, Russian Oligarchy "my-shit-doesn't-just-not-stink but-it's-considered-a-lip-smacking-delicacy-by-epicureans" rich, but “just-enough-money-to-not-have-to-work-if-I-didn't-kinda-enjoy-working” rich.

He wasn't born rich and hadn’t been living rich for too long, either.  A clever, personable sales/marketing type, Curtis had enjoyed—truly enjoyed—a career bouncing around the somewhat disparate fields of fashion, consumer electronics and cosmetics.  Fifteen years after taking his first job, he was rapidly approaching his professional Peter Principle pinnacle as VP Marketing of Speedbump, a small, family-run snowboard accessory company that made white-label helmets, gloves and neck-warmers for big boys like Burton and Ride to brand.   

Curtis dressed and groomed and presented well, well enough to be noticed in a crowd, and knew how to draw a sizable one with his good-natured schmoozing; schmoozing that spilled out of his mouth effortlessly in a breathless, punctuation-be-damned clip.  While women didn’t mind him, he was far from what one would complimentary call a ladies’ man; he was a guy’s guy, equally at home with the suits and the bums and every other guy category in between. 

It was at Speedbump where he opportunistically intersected with a trio of these in-betweens, three uber-cool, tattooed, baggy-panted geeks in the company’s design department who turned him onto things like hardcore social networking and granular web analytics. Knowing every major mountain and board shop owner in America made Curtis the perfect evangelist for their stealth, after-hours high-tech adventure, an invisible wireless app that not only read a radio chip in practically every new ski pass issued, but could use this info to track one's every move on any snow-covered hill.  This tracking led to fascinating “hey, look at me!” statistics—number of runs taken, amount of vertical feet plunged, top speed reached, and so on—which led to friendly one-upmanship competitions, mountainside bar encounters and a way to market to everybody who chose to first consult their stats and status, and then broadcast them to the world on Facebook and Twitter.

At 32, he was about a decade older than his three Speedbump cohorts when—out of boredom and on a stick-out-your-tongue dare from one of them—he decided to join their start-up venture, cheekily called SnowBalls, as adult supervision…and for a full partner’s share.

Three years later, at 35, with Snowballs swallowed up by the nation's largest winter resort operator, this share was worth a cool $4,250,000.

Oh yes, he did well.  To his somewhat befuddled middle-class family, to his concentric circles of friends, to his somewhat jealous former co-workers, to the fawning local media, even to Miranda, he was seen as a shining success story.  Not just any success, but a multi-millionaire. 

Which he indeed was.  Low multiples, but multiples of millions nonetheless.  The literal descriptor of his financial status was no comfort to him, though.

Curtis considered his wealth as somewhat stifling; not enough to be classified as freedom-giving “Fuck You” money, and just enough to give him headaches. 

“Fuck Me” money, he called it, because those two words, delivered in an a exasperated sigh, quite contrary to his usual demeanor, greeted his financial statements when he begrudgingly sat down to review them at this most dreaded time of the month again.

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To be continued next week...

What I Learned This Week: Throwing In The Towel, and Putting On a New Spin

Let's cut right to the chase--here's what I learned this week:

It's time to throw in the towel...

...and pick up a Persian Rug.

And now, to explain such an oblique lesson.

I've been blogging regularly for five years.  It's one of my great pleasures, a getaway from my increasingly-stressful everyday, 90 minutes or so of me time I look forward to every weekend.

This blog, Pow!, has enjoyed two incarnations; one as the source and then support for my book on the element of Surprise (still available, folks!), the other as a repository of weekly lessons learned (and perhaps the fodder for my next book or books).

And today, it--I hope--celebrates its third life (that's the "throwing in the towel" part), as Pow! morphs into a shared creative writing space; shared inasmuch as I do the writing, and hopefully, you the reading. 

Over my many years in showbiz and the tech biz, I've harbored a couple of ideas in my head that I believed would make great short stories, perhaps a novella, or maybe even a film script. But when another such idea popped into my head recently, I realized that with a backlog of three, I'd better start getting them out there before they crumbled and rotted in the increasingly cobwebbed and clutterd attic that is my brain.

One of the problems of being the President of Just For Laughs Festivals and TV is that it leaves little room for additional extracurricular activity, so something had to give.  That "something" is the "lessons learned" element of this blog, which is now being replaced--for the time being--by the most recent of the aforementioned story ideas (that, ostensibly and somewhat pompously, is the "Persian Rug" part).

The blogosphere has changed much in the demi-decade since I first opened a TypePad account, and I think the world is well-served by millions of other marketing/business/social critics, thus would not over-mourn my removal from the space.

Not that it needs another struggling fiction writer either, but hey, that's my decision. 

And no, I didn't quit my day job.

I hope you'll stick around for this new journey; if not, thanks for coming by to share my learnings, ramblings and revelations.  From time-to-time, I'll revert back to lessons when something really smacks me between the eyes, but for the most part, I'll be regaling you every week with chopped-up, bite-sized (500-700 words) stepping stones of my off-beat stories as they deveklop and take life.

So without any further ado, I'd like to introduce you to the ride known as...

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The Spin

It was "that time of the month" again.

Curtis always hated "that time of the month."

Again.

It was that time of bills.  Car payments and mortgage payments.  Bills for necessities, like electricity, Internet connectivity and cable TV, although with the Internet, he wondered if cable TV was really still necessary.  Surely not all 165 additional channels he subscribed to, but he promised himself once again this month that one day he would weed through them and eliminate the non-essentials like The Food Network, Spike and PBS, whose constant whining and begging for funds coincidentally seemed to escalate with this time of the month.

Again.

It was that time of thick, expensive, forest-wasting magazines that slipped through his mail slot and thudded on his floor only to be picked up and unceremoniously heaved on a pile that twice a year he deposited directly into his recycling bin...never mind without reading, but most times without even removing the petroleum-based, protective plastic bagging.

Yeah, again.

It was that time to take his beloved dogs to the vet for their regular check-up.  As they say in storybooks, once upon a time this chore was actually one of his much anticipated highlights, but with both the beagle/spaniel and the poodle/terrier mix in their ninth and tenth years respectively, these days the monthly news was less happy-go-lucky and more Curtis-go-pharmacy.

Sadly, again.

All this, he learned to deal with. 

What really made that time of the month again unbearable was...her.  

"Her" was Miranda, his girlfriend of six years.  More than girlfriend really, she was his live-in wife sans diamond ring or legal commitment.  When he considered his relationship as a whole, he knew it was a good one. Well, to be honest and unapologetic to those around him with lesser personal bonds, a great one.   If he was a baseball fan, he'd calculate their batting average at about .750, maybe .800...not merely Hall of Fame numbers, but All-World. 

But All-World only in baseball.  In this relationship, all the lavish meals, all the walks in the park, all the society-level parties, all the passion, all the movies with gourmet popcorn in front of the fireplace, all the things that most other couples could only envy, all that could not overshadow the behavior she repeated over and over and over again every 30 days or so.  

Much to his chagrin.  

Much to his misery.  

Much to his continual detriment.

For it was that time of the month when Miranda would save some postage costs for the prestigious brokerage where she worked and personally, by hand, bring home Curtis's voluminous, detailed financial statements.

Again.

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To be continued next week...